In a
moment their eyes would seem to start from their heads; and then,
as he threw 'em away, they fell in a dead lump."
How long this went on I can't say--some minutes, though--when a
Mexican snatched the lasso, which every Mexican carries, from the
saddle of El Zeres' horse, and dropped the noose over Rube's neck.
In another moment he was lying half-strangled upon the ground, and
a dozen hands bound his hands behind him and his feet together with
cowhide thongs. Then they stood looking at him as if he was some
devil. And no wonder. Seven Mexicans lay dead on the ground, and
many more were lying panting and bleeding around. The Mexicans are
an active race of men, but not strong--nothing like an average
American--and Rube at any time was a giant even among us scouts;
and in his rage he seemed to have ten times his natural strength.
El Zeres had never moved; and except shouting to his men not to use
their knives, he had taken no part whatever in it--watching the
struggle with that cruel smile, as if it had only been a terrier
attacked by rats. When it was over he mounted his horse, and said
to one of his lieutenants who was standing near: 'I must go now. I
leave these men in your charge, Pedro. Fasten that one's hands
behind him; then take them inside.
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