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Updated: May 20, 2025
"All right," said Ranse. "I reckon you're a maverick for certain. I'm going to put the Rancho Cibolo brand on you. I'll start you to work in one of the camps to-morrow." "Work!" sniffed Curly, disdainfully. "What do you take me for? Do you think I'd chase cows, and hop-skip-and-jump around after crazy sheep like that pink and yellow guy at the store says these Reubs do? Forget it."
"Dam!" again muttered the mulatto; "that dog give us trouble yet thank our luck, wind t'other way." There was not much wind either way, but what there was was in the faces of the hunters, and blowing from the horseman. Fortunately for them it was so, also Cibolo would have scented them to a certainty. Even as things stood, their ambush was near enough discovery.
They were about approaching that stream in a direct line, and were still two miles from its banks, when the dog Cibolo, who had been trotting in advance of the party, suddenly turned to the left, and ran on in that direction. The keen eye of Carlos detected a new trail upon which the dog was running, and which parted from the track of the troopers. It ran in a direction due north.
It was of the most thrilling character, breathing the very spirit of patriotism and courage and despair. In less than an hour, Houston, with a few companions, was on his way to the Alamo. At the same time he sent an express to Fannin, urging him to meet him on the Cibolo. Houston will be here to-morrow." "Then he will learn that all help is too late."
No wonder he looked anxiously for the night no wonder he rode with impatient eagerness towards that lone rendezvous on the Pecos. Night had come again; and, leading his horse down the slope in front of the cave, he mounted and rode off toward the mouth of the canon. The dog Cibolo trotted in advance of him. The man-hunters had not long to wait. They had anticipated this.
"I want you at the ranch," said Ranse. "All right, sport," said Curly, heartily. "But I want to come back again. Say, pal, this is a dandy farm. And I don't want any better fun than hustlin' cows with this bunch of guys. They're all to the merry- merry." At the Cibolo ranch-house they dismounted. Ranse bade Curly wait at the door of the living room. He walked inside.
Gregorio Falcon, Mexican vaquero and best thrower of the rope on the Cibolo, pushed his heavy, silver-embroidered straw sombrero back upon his thicket of jet black curls, and scraped the bottoms of his pockets for a few crumbs of the precious weed. "Ah, Don Samuel," he said, reproachfully, but with his touch of Castilian manners, "escuse me.
"Damn all family feuds and inherited scraps," muttered Ranse vindictively to the breeze as he rode back to the Cibolo. Ranse turned his horse into the small pasture and went to his own room. He opened the lowest drawer of an old bureau to get out the packet of letters that Yenna had written him one summer when she had gone to Mississippi for a visit.
More than once had Carlos placed his foot upon the bridge, and more than once had he returned to have another sweet word another parting kiss. The final "adios" had at length been exchanged; the lovers had parted from each other; Catalina had turned towards the house; and Carlos was advancing to the bridge with the intention of crossing, when a growl from Cibolo caused him to halt and listen.
He listened to every sound, while his eyes pierced the dark recesses of the ravine before and around him. For only a few moments this uncertainty lasted, and then back down the chasm came a noise that caused the listener to start in his saddle. It resembled the worrying of dogs, and for a moment Carlos fancied that Cibolo had made his attack upon a bear!
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