"I'll take the job, and the punishment too if I fail," cried John, eagerly. Then, curbing his impetuosity, lest it should excite suspicion, he added, quietly: "I suppose your Excellency will furnish me with a horse? I have none." "_We_ have a good many, captured from the rebels on the Colorado," said the General, with a smile of grim satisfaction. "You can take your choice. And, muchacho, if you serve me well, your property shall be returned to you uninjured, nor shall that be your only reward." This was said with a gracious smile. John felt the tiger's claws under the velvet pat; but his terror was gone now, and he exulted in the hope of outwitting the cunning Mexican. The General's orderly showed him the corral where the captured horses were confined. There was a number of them; but the practised eye of the ranchero soon picked out the horse he wanted--a beautiful black mustang, whose satinlike skin, small head, and large bright eyes showed breeding and intelligence, while his clean-built sinewy limbs gave satisfactory promise of speed and endurance. "This is the horse for me," said John, going up to him. The orderly demurred. "_No, bueno!_" he exclaimed, emphatically. "He has the temper of the Evil One himself. A muchacho like you will never master him." "He'll not show temper with _me_. Look!" He patted the mustang's glossy neck and stroked its nose, while the horse stood perfectly still and whinnied low. Then, with a bound, John was on its back. For a moment the mustang justified the orderly's bad opinion. With a vigorous buck it tried its best to throw its rider. But John sat firm, and his soothing voice and hand soon pacified the wild creature, which stood quietly by his side when he dismounted, rubbing its head against his shoulder. "That horse knows you," said the orderly. "None of us can manage him; but you are an old friend." "Maybe so. We had a black colt on the ranch that had the making of as fine a horse as this, but he was sold, and I don't know what became of him. I'll try if this is he." He went some distance from the corral, then called "Texas, Texas!" in the caressing tone he had always used to his favorite colt. The mustang trotted up to the fence, thrust its head over it, and looked eagerly towards the place the voice came from. "Texas! Texas!" cried John, delightedly, throwing his arms round the horse's neck and kissing the "lone star" on its forehead, the sole white spot on its glossy black hide. The pursuit was resumed next day, and John went out regularly with the Mexican scouts, and always brought back encouraging reports. Firm in his conviction that a battle must result in a victory for the Texans, notwithstanding the greatly superior force of the enemy, John felt certain that the best service he could render his country would be to bring about a collision between her invaders and defenders as speedily as possible.