he died a hero.  When this last Indian saw that he was going to be overtaken, his own horse being recently wounded, he hung on one side of the animal and returned the fire.  At a range of ten yards he planted a bullet squarely in the leader’s forehead, his own horse falling at the same instant.  Those two horses fell dead so near that you could have tied their tails together.  Our man was thrown so suddenly, that he came to his feet dazed, his eyes filled with dirt.  The Indian stood not twenty steps away and fired several shots at him.  Our man, in his blindness, stood there and beat the air with his gun, expecting the Indian to rush on him every moment.  Had the buck used his gun for a club, it might have been different, but as long as he kept shooting, his enemy was safe.  Half a dozen of us, who were near enough to witness his final fight, dashed up, and the Indian fell riddled with bullets.

“We went into camp after the fight was over with two wounded men and half a dozen dead or disabled horses.  Those of us who had mounts in good fix scoured back and gathered in our packs and all the Indian and stolen horses that were unwounded.  It looked like a butchery, but our minds were greatly relieved on that point the next day, when we found among their effects over a dozen fresh, bloody scalps, mostly women and children.  There’s times and circumstances in this service that make the toughest of us gloomy.”

“How long ago was that?” inquired Orchard.

“Quite a while ago,” replied Dad.  “I ought to be able to tell exactly.  I was a youngster then.  Well, I’ll tell you; it was during the reconstruction days, when Davis was governor.  Figure it out yourself.”

“Speaking of the disagreeable side of this service,” said Happy Jack, “reminds me of an incident that took all the nerve out of every one connected with it.  When I first went into the service, there was a well-known horse-thief and smuggler down on the river, known as El Lobo.  He operated on both sides of the Rio Grande, but generally stole his horses from the Texas side.  He was a night owl.  It was nothing for him to be seen at some ranch in the evening, and the next morning be met seventy-five or eighty miles distant.  He was a good judge of horse-flesh, and never stole any but the best.  His market was well in the interior of Mexico, and he supplied it liberally.  He was a typical dandy, and like a sailor had a wife in every port.  That was his weak point, and there’s where we attacked him.

“He had made all kinds of fun of this service, and we concluded to have him at any cost.  Accordingly we located his women and worked on them.  Mexican beauty is always over-rated, but one of his conquests in that line came as near being the ideal for a rustic beauty as that nationality produces.  This girl was about twenty, and lived with a questionable mother at a ranchito back from the river about thirty miles.  In form and feature there was nothing lacking, while the smouldering fire of her black eyes would win saint or thief alike.  Born in poverty and ignorance, she was a child of circumstance, and fell an easy victim to El Lobo, who lavished every attention upon her.  There was no present too costly for him, and on his periodical visits he dazzled her with gifts.  But infatuations of that class generally have an end, often a sad one.