cross the open
ground with a gun in his hand. He was advancing towards the spot where
I stood. It was he who had fired the shot. I saw that he was in
Mexican costume; surely he was one of the guerrilleros--he had aimed at
me, and wounded his comrade?

For some seconds, I fancied that such might be the case. Evidently he
was bolder than any of the three, for he continued to advance, as if
determined to attack me alone!

I placed myself in readiness for this new antagonist--taking a fresh
grasp on my sword, and wiping the blood from my eyes, that I might the
better receive him.

It was not until he was close to the point of my blade, that I
recognised the long ape-like arms, and crooked mateless limbs, of Elijah
Quackenboss!

The ranger, after delivering his fire, had not waited to reload, but ran
forward with the intention of joining me in the hand-to-hand fight--
though he carried no other weapon than his empty gun. But this would
have been an efficient arm in such hands; for, despite his unsymmetrical
build, Dutch Lige was stalwart and though, and would have been a full
match for any two of my assailants, had they stood their ground.

But the crack of the gun had set them off like deer. They fancied, no
doubt, that a stronger force was near; perhaps they remembered the
terrible rifles of the trappers, and no doubt believed it was they who
had arrived to the rescue. Indeed, such was my own belief, until I saw
the oddly-costumed ranger bounding towards the spot.

A glance satisfied me that I owed my preservation to Lige's love of
botanical science. A large globe-shaped cactus plant, bristling like a
hedgehog, hung dangling from the swivel of his gun--it was thus carried
to save his fingers from contact with its barbed spines--while stuck
into every loop and button-hole of his dress could be seen the leaves
and branchlets, and fruits and flowers, of a host of curious and unknown
plants! He had been herborising in the woods; and coming by chance
within earshot of the scuffle, had scrambled through the bushes just in
time to spoil the _coup-de-grace_ intended by El Zorro.

"Thanks, Quackenboss! thanks, my brave friend! you came in good time:
you have saved me."

"But a poor shot I've made, capten. I ought to have broken that red
divel's skull, or sent my bullet into his stomach; he's got off too
easy."

"It was a good shot: you broke his arm, I think."

"Ach! 'twas a poor shot; the cactus spoiled my a