"I don't suppose there is much hope, but I have an idea that maybe Thunderbolt has been wounded and needs looking after. The bullets have been flying pretty thickly during the last few minutes, and for that matter," he added, pausing a few seconds to listen, "they are not through yet." On the edge of the bush he encountered a horseman, whose voice, when hailed, showed that he was "Jersey." "What's the trouble?" asked Avon, pausing to exchange words with his friend. "Aint nothing more to do," was the response; "the varmints are travelling faster than this horse can go, though he was one of their animals." "How was that?" "I got it in the neck--that is my critter did. I had one of them pretty well pinned, when he fired from under his horse's belly and my pony went down, as dead as a doornail. I came mighty nigh being mashed under him, but I dropped the other chap, for all I couldn't see him when I drew bead. I 'spose it was a chance shot, but the minute he went off his horse got so bewildered he didn't know what to do with himself. While he was trotting about, I catched him, put my bridle on him without trouble, and here I am, Baby." "Sure he isn't one of ours?" asked Avon, approaching still nearer and looking him over as well as he could in the darkness. "He is now, but he wasn't fifteen minutes ago." Knowing that he was not Thunderbolt, the youth was hopeful that it might prove Jack; but it took only a minute to learn that Jersey was right. The steed had been brought to the spot by one of the Comanches and was a fine animal, though so much time passed before the Texan secured him that he was simply prudent in not trying to follow after the red men, who were far beyond reach. Jersey laughed when Avon told him his errand, but said he would not be much surprised if he was successful, for the reasons which have been already stated. There had been hot work in the bush, for when the cattlemen charged the Comanches, they did so with all the vigor of their nature. These Indians were among the most persistent thieves in Texas, and, as the reader knows, the man who attempts to run off another's cattle or horses commits a more flagrant crime in that section of our Union than he does when he seeks the owners' lives. Avon bore to the left, leaving the principal theatre of the scrimmage, and had not reached the border of the mesquite when he almost stumbled over a fine horse that lay on its side, without a particle of life. "I wonder whether that is Thunderbolt," he said, with a feeling of dread, as he bent over to examine the body. Drawing a rubber safe from his pocket, he struck a match, and by the tiny flame looked at the head and side of the dead steed. One scrutinizing glance was enough; the body was not that of his own favorite, but of Jack, belonging to his uncle. "Poor Jack!" murmured the youth with a thrill of sympathy, "you have been on many a stirring campaign, but you will go on no more. I wonder how it was you met your death."