Already the soldiers were close enough for them to see the moonlight glinting on spurs and rifles. Judging from the appearance of the horses the exertion of swimming and wading over sand-bars must have told heavily on their strength, for in spite of fierce commands and cracking quirts, they lumbered along so slowly that Don excitedly remarked: “Those chaps won’t beat the Rangers out by very much, after all!”
“Suppose we climb that hill over yonder,” puffed Sam. “From the top we’ll be able to see in which direction they head.”
“All right,” panted Dave.
Before they had time to reach its base, the dripping horses struggled across the last strip of muddy beach and disappeared behind a jutting point.
The Rangers’ horses, fresh and strong after a good rest, were thundering along at topmost speed. Just as the boys, breathing hard from their arduous work, scrambled to the summit of the ridge, they clattered by.
From their point of vantage the three immediately caught sight of the fleeing soldiers, a number of whom were scattering in various directions.
“Sergeant Howell’s bunch will never be able to round them up now!” predicted Don. “Ah! They go—see how those nags of theirs can travel! Say, this beats a motion-picture thriller, doesn’t it?”
Interested and excited, the group watched the Rangers rapidly overhauling the main body. Both pursued and pursuers, riding over the crests of hills and down into deeply shadowed valleys, were often lost to view. The sound of the pounding hoofs became steadily fainter, and finally there was nothing to tell, either by sight or sound, of the wild race taking place among the Texas hills.
“I wonder if the Mexicans will put up a scrap!” remarked Don in a disturbed tone.
“I’m afraid so!” said the historian soberly.