o the flanks of their ponies, gave
utterance to their wild whoops, and went forward on a dead run.

Before this, the Indians must have suspected that matters were not
progressing right. They were aware that one or more white men were in
the vicinity, and as a matter of course knew of the Texan camp, only a
few miles away. If the cowboys had not learned what was going on from
the reports of the guns, they must soon learn it from the whites, who
were not only near the building, but who managed to keep out of their
clutches.

Not only that, but the red men had already lost several of their best
warriors, and having been repeatedly baffled in their attempts to fire
the building, were considering a withdrawal, at the moment they were
joined by their comrade, who received such unmerited mercy from Mrs.
Shirril.

The shouts, firing of guns, and tramp of the horses settled the question
off-hand. There was an instant scattering to their own steeds, upon
whose backs they vaulted, and then, turning their heads toward the
mesquite bush, they sent them flying away at breakneck speed.

But the Texans were not to be disappointed of their entertainment in
that style. Catching a glimpse of the scurrying horsemen, they were
after them like so many thunderbolts, firing their pistols and rifles,
even when there was no chance of hitting anything. There was no time to
aim, and they took the chances of so much powder accomplishing
something, when burned with ardor and eagerness.

Thus it came about that, within a minute after the arrival of our
friends, they were out of sight again in the brush, doing their utmost
to teach the marauders a lesson that would keep them forever away from
that neighborhood.

"Ballyhoo" fixed his eye on one of the red men, who seemed to be at the
rear. He was in fact the very fellow whose life had been spared by Mrs.
Shirril. Arriving on the ground at the last moment, he was obliged to
run several rods before reaching his horse; but he did it quickly, and,
turning his head toward the bush, dashed after his companions and was
almost upon their heels.

"You're my game!" exclaimed Gleeson, banging away with his revolver at
him, but, so far as he could see, without effect.

The mesquite bush was not vigorous enough to offer much obstruction to
the mustangs, though it was much more objectionable than the open plain.
The horses could plunge through it, almost as if it were so much tall
grass, besides which it g