Some of my comrades were actuated by very different motives. Killing a Comanche Indian was, by their creed, no greater crime than killing a wolf, a panther, or a grizzly bear; and it was not from any motives of mercy that the trapper had cautioned the others to hold their fire; prudence alone dictated the advice—he had given his reason—the reports of our guns might be heard.
Through the leaves, I looked upon the horseman as he advanced. A fine-looking fellow he was—no doubt one of the distinguished warriors of his tribe. What his face was I could not see, for the war-paint disfigured it with a hideous mask; but his body was large, his chest broad and full, his limbs symmetrical, and well turned to the very toes. He sat his horse like a centaur.
I had no opportunity for prolonged observation. Without hesitating, the Indian galloped up.
I sprang my horse clear of the timber. I wound the lazo around my head, and hurled it towards him; I saw the noose settling over his shoulders, and falling down to his hips.
I spurred in the opposite direction; I felt the quick jerk, and the taut rope told me I had secured the victim.
I turned in my saddle, and glanced back; I saw the rope of Garey around the neck of the Indian’s mustang, tightened, and holding him fast. Horse and horseman—both were ours!