Not Dead yet.
The assassin lies stretched along the earth—his arms embraced by the raw-hide rope—to all appearance dead.
But his captor does not trust to this. He believes it to be only a faint—it may be a feint—and to make sure it is not the latter, he remains in his saddle, keeping his lazo upon the strain.
The blood-bay, obedient to his will, stands firm as the trunk of a tree—ready to rear back, or bound forward, on receiving the slightest sign.
It is a terrible tableau; though far from being strange in that region of red-handed strife, that lies along the far-stretching frontier of Tamaulipas and Texas.
Oft—too oft—has the soaring vulture looked down upon such a scene—with joy beholding it, as promising a banquet for its filthy beak!
Even now half a score of these ravenous birds, attracted by the report of the pistol, are hovering in the air—their naked necks elongated in eager anticipation of a feast!
One touch of the spur, on the part of him seated in the saddle, would give them what they want.
“It would serve the scoundrel right,” mutters the mustanger to himself. “Great God, to think of the crime he has committed! Killed his own cousin, and then cut off his head! There can be no doubt that he has done both; though from what motive, God only can tell,—or himself, if he be still alive.
“I have my own thoughts about it. I know that he loves her; and it may be that the brother stood in his way.