"No, I can see that," rejoined the young officer, gazing off down the hillside.
In every direction could be seen Mexican troopers pursuing rebels, shooting them down, without mercy when fight was shown, in other cases, making prisoners. The rout of the insurrectos was complete and final.
Suddenly a figure on horseback was seen coming at a hard gallop toward the little group surrounding Captain Dominguez.
"It's Harding!" gasped Jack, as the figure drew closer, and indeed it was the former West Pointer. But he was in sad case. His shirt was torn almost from his back, his features blackened and seared, and a red stain showed upon his chest.
"He was in that explosion, the precious scoundrel!" grated out Buck, as his eye took in these details. "He was one of the fellers that set that fire."
Straight for the little party Harding rode. But before he reached them two Mexican troopers interposed. They raised their carbines and the next moment would have been Harding's last, but for Jack.
"Don't let them fire!" he begged.
The captain shouted an order and the troopers lowered their weapons. Straight on for the party rode Harding, toppling out of his saddle as he reached them. The fellow was badly wounded. He had been struck by a flying splinter in the explosion of the dynamite.
"Ah, a countryman of yours," remarked the captain, with a tinge of sarcasm. "You should be proud of him, señors."
But Jack was on his knees beside Harding.