He was still lying out on the plain, where he had fallen, the long shaft of the lance standing up out of his skull.

Not ten feet distant lay the corpse, of his slayer, glistening in its gaudy and picturesque attire.
The other guerillero, as he fell, had noosed one of his legs in the lazo that hung from the horn of his saddle, and was now dragged over the prairie after his wild and snorting mustang.

As the animal swerved, at every jerk his limber body bounded to the distance of twenty feet, where it would lie motionless until slung into the air by a fresh pluck on the lazo.
As we were watching this horrid spectacle, several of the guerilleros galloped after, while half a dozen others were observed spurring their steeds towards the rear of the corral.

On looking in this direction we perceived a huge red horse, with an empty saddle, scouring at full speed across the prairie.

A single glance showed us that this horse was Hercules.
"Good heavens! the Major!" "Safe somewhere," replied Clayley; "but where the deuce can he be?
He is not _hors de combat_ on the plain, or one could see him even ten miles off.