“Let them capture them! What care I, for sooner or later they would all be hanged! I will look after myself only; and, if Mendez served me faithfully, within twenty-four hours I will be far from here.” As he rode along, there came to him the sound of distant firing and shouting. Involuntarily he drew up and listened for a while. “They have captured the retreat, and the Trail Bandits are no more, for that is the wild Texas yell of victory,” he muttered. Then, dashing the spurs into the flanks of his horse, he rode on like the wind. CHAPTER XX. THE FLIGHT. The third night after the departure of the vigilantes rolled around, and the settlers in the valley were becoming anxious regarding their friends, for no word had come from them since they struck the bandits’ trail. Mary Hale’s beautiful eyes were dimmed with tears as she bade her father good night, for she dreaded evil to Captain Dash, whom she loved with all the fervor of her heart. Hardly had she reached her room, when there was a loud knock upon the hall door of the cabin, and Judge Hale called out: “Well, what is it?” “News from the vigilantes, judge,” said a voice, outside. “Who are you?” “Martin Burke.” “Ah! one moment, Burke, and I will let you in,” answered the judge, recognizing, as he believed, the voice of a settler down the valley. The door swung open. Then there came a flash, and, a cry upon his lips, Judge Hale fell to the floor, while three men sprang over his body into the hall. Those three were Kent King, Mathew Kingsland, and Mendez, the Mexican. “This is her room, Kent; come!” cried the old villain. With one kick he drove in the door, and the three dashed through into the comfortable chamber, which the taste of Mary had made most beautiful and comfortable. But they suddenly stopped, for in the center of the room stood the brave girl, her face pale, her eyes flashing, her hand extended and holding a revolver. “Back, or I will kill you,” she said firmly. “Bah, she’s but a girl; come!” cried Kent King, and the three sprang forward. But the flash and report came, and the bullet, speeding by the ear of Kent King, buried itself in the brain of Mendez, the Mexican, who fell dead in his tracks. Before Mary could again fire, she was seized in the strong arms of Kent King, her cries were checked, and she became unconscious. When at last she recovered her senses, she found herself held in the arms of a man whose face she saw distinctly. It was Kent King, and she was held across the saddle before him. His horse was going at a rapid gallop. Ahead was another horseman, whom she knew must be Mathew Kingsland, the pretended Parson Miller. Feigning unconsciousness, she remained quiet, and heard their conversation, for the man ahead soon dropped back and rode alongside, remarking, as he did so: “I am not sorry she killed the Mexican, as he would have continually bled us.”