Saying this, he advanced to the door, and was just putting has hand upon the latch, when we heard a most terrific yell, which was followed by a neighing, which I recognized as that of my horse.  Taking our pistols and bowie-knives, we hurried down the lane.

We found that our two horses, with a third, belonging to one of the hunters, were out of the stable, and tied neck and tail, so as to require only one person to lead them.  The first one had the bridle on, and the last, which was mine, was in a state of excitement, as if something unusual had happened to him.  On continuing our search, we found the body of a young man, most horribly mangled, the breast being entirely open, and the heart and intestines hanging outside.

It appeared that my faithful steed, which had already shown, in Texas, a great dislike to being taken away from me, had given the thief the terrible kick, which had thrown him ten or fifteen yards, as I have said a mangled corpse.  By this time, the other hunters came out to us; lights were procured, and then we learned that the victim was the parson’s eldest son, newly married, and settled on the east side of the St. Francis.  The parson was not long himself in making his appearance; but he came from an opposite direction to that of the house, and he was dressed as on the evening before:  he had evidently not been to bed during that night.

As soon as he became aware of the melancholy circumstance, he raved and swore that he would have the lives of the damned Frenchman and his damnation horse; but Mr. Courtenay went to him, and said—­

“Hold your tongue, miserable man!  See your own work, for you have caused this death.  It was to fetch your son, to help you to steal the horses, that you crossed the river in the dug-out.  Be silent, I say; you know me; look at your eldest-born, villain that you are!  May the chain of your future misery be long, and the last link of it the gibbet, which you deserve!”

The parson was silent, even when his sobbing wife reproached him.  “I warned thee, husband,” she said; “even now has this come, and I fear that worse is still to come.  Unlucky was the hour we met:  still more so when the child was born;” and, leaning against the fence, she wept bitterly.

I will pass over the remainder of this melancholy scene.  We all felt for the mother and the poor girl, who stood by with a look of despair.  Saddling our horses, Mr. Courtenay and I resumed our journey, the hunters remaining behind till the arrival of the magistrate, whom we promised to send.  To procure one, we were obliged to quit the high road, and, after a ride of several miles, having succeeded in finding his house, we woke him, gave him the necessary directions, and, at sunrise, forded the river.

CHAPTER XXXVII.