"If any one passes the lane with any of our horses, shoot him; I will go
down myself and thrash the blackguard, for I suspect the parson will
turn them into the swamps, where he is pretty certain of recovering them
afterwards."

Saying this, he advanced to the door, and was just putting has hand upon
the latch, when we heard a most terrific yell, which was followed by a
neighing, which I recognized as that of my horse. Taking our pistols and
bowie-knives, we hurried down the lane.

We found that our two horses, with a third, belonging to one of the
hunters, were out of the stable, and tied neck and tail, so as to
require only one person to lead them. The first one had the bridle on,
and the last, which was mine, was in a state of excitement, as if
something unusual had happened to him. On continuing our search, we
found the body of a young man, most horribly mangled, the breast being
entirely open, and the heart and intestines hanging outside.

It appeared that my faithful steed, which had already shown, in Texas, a
great dislike to being taken away from me, had given the thief the
terrible kick, which had thrown him ten or fifteen yards, as I have said
a mangled corpse. By this time, the other hunters came out to us; lights
were procured, and then we learned that the victim was the parson's
eldest son, newly married, and settled on the east side of the St.
Francis. The parson was not long himself in making his appearance; but
he came from an opposite direction to that of the house, and he was
dressed as on the evening before: he had evidently not been to bed
during that night.

As soon as he became aware of the melancholy circumstance, he raved and
swore that he would have the lives of the damned Frenchman and his
damnation horse; but Mr. Courtenay went to him, and said--

"Hold your tongue, miserable man! See your own work, for you have caused
this death. It was to fetch your son, to help you to steal the horses,
that you crossed the river in the dug-out. Be silent, I say; you know
me; look at your eldest-born, villain that you are! May the chain of
your future misery be long, and the last link of it the gibbet, which
you deserve!"

The parson was silent, even when his sobbing wife reproached him. "I
warned thee, husband," she said; "even now has this come, and I fear
that worse is still to come. Unlucky was the hour we met: still more so
when the child was born;" and, leaning against the fence, she
wept bitt