“’Tis not vengeance, but justice. ’Tis my duty to chastise this crime—the greatest on earth. Something whispers me ’tis a destiny, and I shall succeed. Dearest Adela, do not stay me. There is no danger. I shall be back soon, bringing Uraga’s sword, perhaps himself, along with me.”
“Thar’s odds again ye, Frank,” interposes Wilder. “Two to one. If I foller afoot I mayn’t be up in time. An’ the boys that’s gone arter thar critters, they’ll be too late.”
“Never mind the odds! I’ll make it up with the five shots still in my revolver. See, dearest, your brother is coming this way. Go meet and tell him I shall soon return with a prisoner to be exchanged for him. Another kiss! Adios! hasta luego!”
Tearing himself from arms so reluctant to release him, he bounds upon the back of his horse and spurs off, soon disappearing among the trees.
Scarce is he out of sight when another quadruped is seen galloping after—not a horse, but a hybrid.
Walt Wilder has espied the saddled mule hitched up behind the tent—that intended for Conchita. It is now ridden by the ex-Ranger, who, prodding it with the point of his bowie, puts it to its best speed.
And soon after go other horsemen—the Texans who have recovered their steeds, with some who have caught those of the troopers, rapidly bridled and mounted them bare-back.
They who stay behind become spectators of a scene strange and tender. Two male prisoners unexpectedly rescued—snatched, as it were, from the jaws of death—two female captives alike saved from dishonour. A brother embracing his sister, whose noble affection but the moment before prompted her to share with him the first sooner than submit to the last.