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"Two, four, six, eight," he muttered to himself at intervals. "Yes, there are eight of them."Again he laid his ear to the ground and listened."Yes, there are eight of them, sure enough," he again muttered; and then, after a pause, he added: "But two of them are mules, I think; and they are coming right down hitherward."Then he looked to his rifle lock, and cocked his piece."Unless they turn aside when they reach the timber, they will be on me in five minutes; and if they know the forest, they will not turn, that's certain; for here's the only place where you can find hard bottom to ride in and out of the old Bravo, for ten miles up and down."He paused from his soliloquy, listened again, and then a smile crept across his intelligent face.

A tale from the 1800s in the Texas plains written by British author Henry William Herbert.