We had no design of giving him to such a fate. Without thought had we acted; and though he may have deserved death, we had not designed for him such terrible retribution.
Perhaps I was the only one who had any remorseful feeling; but the remembrance of that scalp-bedecked shield—the scenes in that Cyprian grove—those weeping captives, wedded to a woeful lot—the remembrance of these cruel realities evermore rose before my mind, stifling the remorse I should otherwise have felt for the doom of the ill-starred savage. His death, though terrible in kind, was merited by his deeds; and was perhaps as just as punishments usually are.
Poetical justice demands the death of Ijurra, and by the hand of Holingsworth. Truth enables me to satisfy the demand.
On my return to the camp, I learned that the act was already consummated—the brother’s blood had been avenged!
It was a tragic tale, and would take many chapters in the telling. I may not give them here. Let a few particulars suffice.
From that dread night, Holingsworth had found a willing hand to aid him in his purpose of retribution—one who yearned for vengeance keenly as himself. Wheatley was the man.
The two, with a chosen party, had thrown themselves on the trail of the guerrilla; and with Pedro as their guide, had followed it far within the hostile lines. Like sleuth-hounds had they followed it night and day, until they succeeded in tracking the guerrilleros to their lair.
It was a desperate conflict—hand to hand, and knife to knife—but the rangers at length triumphed; most of the guerrilleros were slain, and the band nearly annihilated.
Ijurra fell by Holingsworth’s own hand; while the death of the red ruffian El Zorro, by the bowie knife of the Texan lieutenant, was an appropriate punishment for the cruelty inflicted upon Conchita. The revenge of both was complete, though both still bore the sorrow within their hearts.