A loud cheer, such as was never uttered by Mexican throats, came from the opposite edge of the prairie; and looking in that direction I beheld a long line of dark forms debouching from the woods at a gallop. Their sparkling blades, as they issued from the dark forest, glistened like a cordon of fireflies, and I recognised the heavy footfall of the American horse. A cheer from my men attracted their attention; and the leader of the dragoons, seeing that the guerilleros had got far out of reach, wheeled his column to the right and came galloping down.
“Is that Colonel Rawley?” inquired I, recognising a dragoon officer.
“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed he, “how did you get out? We heard you were jugged. All alive yet?”
“We have lost two,” I replied.
“Pah! that’s nothing. I came out expecting to bury the whole kit of you. Here’s Clayley, too. Clayley, your friend Twing’s with us; you’ll find him in the rear.”
“Ha! Clayley, old boy!” cried Twing, coming up; “no bones broken? all right? Take a pull; do you good—don’t drink it all, though—leave a thimbleful for Haller there. How do you like that?”
“Delicious, by Jove!” ejaculated Clayey, tugging away at the major’s flask.
“Come, Captain, try it.”
“Thank you,” I replied, eagerly grasping the welcome flask.
“But where is old Bios? killed, wounded, or missing?”