A Short Shrift.

Difficult—indeed, impossible—for pen to describe the scene consequent upon the arrival of the Rangers by the banks of the swollen stream, and finding it unfordable.

Imagine a man who has secured passage by a ship bound for some far-off foreign land, and delayed by some trifling affair, comes upon the pier to see the hawser cast off, the plank drawn ashore, the sails spread, himself left hopelessly behind!

His chagrin might be equal to that felt by the Texans, but slight compared with what harrows the hearts of Hamersley and Walt Wilder. To symbolise theirs, it must be a man missing his ship homeward bound, with sweetheart, wife, child awaiting him at the end of the voyage, and in a port from which vessels take departure but “few and far between.”

These two, better than any of the Texans, understand the obstruction that has arisen, in the same proportion as they are aggrieved by it. Too well do they comprehend its fatal import. Not hours, but whole days, may elapse before the flood subsides, the stream can be forded, the ravine ascended, and the pursuit continued.

Hours—days! A single day—an hour—may seal the fate of those dear to them. The hearts of both are sad, their bosoms racked with anguish, as they sit in their saddles with eyes bent on the turbid stream, which cruelly forbids fording it.

In different degree and from a different cause the Texans also suffer. Some only disappointment, but others real chagrin. These last men, whose lives have been spent fighting their Mexican foemen, hating them from the bottom of their hearts. They are those who knew the unfortunate Fanning and the lamented Bowie, who gave his name to their knives; some of themselves having escaped from the red massacre of Goliad and the savage butchery of the Alamo.

Ever since they have been practising the lex talionis—seeking retaliation, and oft-times finding it. Perhaps too often wreaking their vengeance on victims that might be innocent. Now that guilty ones—real Mexican soldiers in uniform, such as ruthlessly speared and shot down their countrymen at Goliad and San Antonio—now that a whole troop of these have but the hour before been within reach—almost striking distance—it is afflicting, maddening, to think they may escape.

And the more reflecting on the reason, so slight and accidental—a shower of rain swelling a tiny stream. For all this, staying their pursuit as effectively as if a sea of fire separated them from the foe, so despised and detested.

The lightning still flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down.

No use staying any longer by the side of the swollen stream, to be tantalised by its rapid, rushing............