precious horses. As
it was, we were soon once more upon their backs; and, free from all
thought of peril, now joyfully turned our faces towards the rancheria.

Wheatley rode by my side. Holingsworth with a party remained upon the
ground to collect the "spoils" and bury our unfortunate comrades. As we
moved away, I turned, and for a moment gazed back on the scene of
strife. I saw Holingsworth dismounted on the plain. He was moving
among the bodies of the five guerrilleros; one after another, he turned
them over, till the moon glared upon their ghastly features. So odd
were his movements, and so earnest did he appear, that one might have
fancied him engaged in searching for a fallen friend, or more like some
prowling robber intent upon stripping the dead!

But neither object was his--on the contrary, he was searching for a foe.

He found him not. After scanning the features of all five, he was seen
to turn away, and the unconcerned manner in which he moved from the spot
told that he who was sought was not among the slain.

"The news, Wheatley?"

"News, Cap! Grand news, by thunder! It appears we have been barking up
the wrong tree--at least so thinks President Polk. They say we can't
reach Mexico on this line; so we're all going to be drawn off, and
shipped to some port farther down the gulf, Vera Cruz--I believe."

"Ah! grand news, indeed."

"I don't like it a bit," continued Wheatley; "the less so since it is
rumoured that old `Rough and Ready' is to be recalled, and we're to be
commanded by that book martinet Scott. It's shabby treatment of Taylor,
after what the old vet has accomplished. They're afraid of him setting
up for President next go. Hang their politics! It's a confounded
shame, by thunder!"

I could partly understand Wheatley's reluctance to be ordered upon the
new line of operations. The gay lieutenant was never troubled with
ennui; his leisure hours he contrived to pass pleasantly enough in
company with Conchita, the plump, dark-eyed daughter of the alcalde;
more than once, I had unwittingly interrupted them in their amorous
dalliance. The rancheria with its mud huts and dusty lanes, in the eyes
of the Texan, was a city of gilded palaces, its streets paved with gold.
It was Wheatley's heaven, and Conchita was the angel who inhabited it.

Little as either he or I had liked the post at first, neither of us
desired a change of quarters.

As yet, no order had arrived to call the picke