Indian foeman, ever since the lone-star had spread its banner to the
breeze. No raw recruit was Wheatley; though young, he was what Texans
term an "old Indian fighter"--a real "Texas ranker."

Holingsworth was not a Texan, but a Tennessean, though Texas had been
for some years his adopted home. It was not the first time he had
crossed the Rio Grande. He had been one of the unfortunate Mier
expedition--a survivor of that decimated band--afterwards carried in
chains to Mexico, and there compelled to work breast-deep in the mud of
the great _zancas_ that traverse the streets. Such experience might
account for the serious, somewhat stern expression that habitually
rested upon his countenance, and gave him the character of a "dark
saturnine man." I have said incidentally that I never saw him smile--
never. He spoke seldom, and, as a general thing, only upon matters of
duty; but at times, when he fancied himself alone, I have heard him
mutter threats, while a convulsive twitching of the muscles and a
mechanical clenching of the fingers accompanied his words, as though he
stood in the presence of some deadly foe! I had more than once observed
these frenzied outbursts, without knowing aught of their cause. Harding
Holingsworth--such was his full name--was a man with whom no one would
have cared to take the liberty of asking an explanation of his conduct.
His courage and war-prowess were well known among the Texans; but it is
idle to add this, since otherwise he could not have stood among them in
the capacity of a leader. Men like them, who have the election of their
own officers, do not trust their lives to the guidance of either
stripling or coward.

Wheatley and I were talking the matter over as we rode along, and
endeavouring to account for the strange behaviour of Holingsworth. We
had both concluded that the affair had arisen from some old enmity--
perhaps connected with the Mier expedition--when accidentally I
mentioned the Mexican's name. Up to this moment the Texan lieutenant
had not seen Ijurra--having been busy with the cattle upon the other
side of the hill--nor had the name been pronounced in his hearing.

"Ijurra?" he exclaimed with a start, reining up, and turning upon me an
inquiring look.

"Ijurra."

"_Rafael_ Ijurra, do you think?"

"Yes, Rafael--that is the name."

"A tall dark fellow, moustached and whiskered?--not ill-looking?"

"Yes; he might answer that description," I replied.

"If it