Under these circumstances, we had nothing to do but let the Mexicans run.  We sent a detachment to the muskeet island, to unite itself with the twelve men who had done such good service there, and thence advance towards the ford.  We ourselves proceeded slowly in the latter direction.  This demonstration brought the fugitives back again, for they had, most of them, in the wild precipitation of their flight, passed the only place where they could cross the river.  They began crowding over in the greatest confusion, foot and horse all mixed up together; and by the time we got within a hundred paces of the ford, the prairie was nearly clear of them.  There were still a couple of hundred men on our side of the water, completely at our mercy, and Wharton, who was a little in front with thirty men, gave the word to fire upon them.  No one obeyed.  He repeated the command.  Not a rifle was raised.  He stared at his men, astonished and impatient at this strange disobedience.  An old weather-beaten bear-hunter stepped forward, squirting out his tobacco juice with all imaginable deliberation.

“I tell ye what, capting!” said he, passing his quid over from his right cheek to his left; “I calkilate, capting,” he continued, “we’d better leave the poor devils of dons alone.”

“The poor devils of dons alone!” repeated Wharton in a rage.  “Are you mad, man?”

Fanning and I had just come up with our detachment, and were not less surprised and angry than Wharton was, at this breach of discipline.  The man, however, did not allow himself to be disconcerted.

“There’s a proverb, gentlemen,” said he, turning to us, “which says, that one should build a golden bridge for a beaten enemy; and a good proverb it is, I calkilate—­a considerable good one.”

“What do you mean, man, with your golden bridge?” cried Fanning.  “This is no time for proverbs.”

“Do you know that you are liable to be punished for insubordination?” said I.  “It’s your duty to fire, and do the enemy all the harm you can; not to be quoting proverbs.”

“Calkilate it is,” replied the man very coolly.  “Calkilate I could shoot ’em without either danger or trouble; but I reckon that would be like Spaniards or Mexicans; not like Americans—­not prudent.”

“Not like Americans?  Would you let the enemy escape, then, when we have him in our power?”

“Calkilate I would.  Calkilate we should do ourselves more harm than him by shooting down his people.  That was a considerable sensible commandment of yourn, always to shoot the foremost of the Mexicans when they attacked.  It discouraged the bold ones, and was a sort of premium on cowardice.  Them as lagged behind escaped, them as came bravely on were shot.  It was a good calkilation.  If we had shot ’em without discrimination, the cowards would have got bold, seein’ that they weren’t safer in rear than in front.  The cowards are our best friends.  Now them runaways,”