Toward the end of August the pluvial god, assisted by the physical
characteristics of the region, provided us with a genuine sensation.
Hitherto we had had mere weather; this was a pronounced case of
meteorology: until then I had taken no special satisfaction in the word.
It had been raining frequently during the month, in quite unusual
volume; the arroyos were pretty brooks, the sides of the divides wept,
and there were wide, soft places on the prairies; the flocks went very
lame from the excessive dampness, and riding was a splashing and
spattering business; but the oldest inhabitant dropped no hint
suggestive of the veritable meteorological _coup_ which was quietly
preparing.
We retired one night in our usual unsuspecting frame of mind, and awoke
next morning to hear above the dull reverberation of the rain the
booming of a torrent. The arroyo near the ranch was no longer an arroyo,
but a stream fifty feet wide; and on the hither side of the pecan-trees
of the creek could be seen a silver line: the water had already
surpassed the banks. Before noon there was neither creek nor arroyo, but
a river a mile wide rushing down the valley: we knew where the trees had
been, by the swirling waves. A flood is like those serpents which
fascinate before they strike. The monotonous rain failing _ohne Hast,
ohne Rast_, the dead immutable murk of the sky, the rush of gray wave
after wave, induced a state of dull lethargic wonder: the feet--the foot
more, would it accomplish that? Already the floor of the ranch-house was
under water. But there was soon a sufficient dashing about of riders in
long yellow oil-skin coats, and all was done that the situation seemed
to demand or admit of. The culminating moment of the day came toward two
in the afternoon, when we stood on the roof of the ranch-house, with our
eyes glued to a sulphur-colored patch a mile up the valley. It was a
flock of sheep congregated on an unsubmerged knoll in the middle of the
torrent. There was a sudden movement in the mass, the sulphur patch
vanished, and there was borne to us distinctly a long, plaintive cry:
the flock had been swept away. In a few minutes, however, we caught
sight of many of them swimming admirably, and, much to our astonishment,
they found a desperate footing opposite the ranch across the swift sweep
of the arroyo. A dozen Mexicans were equal to the emergency. They
stripped, threw themselves in, stemmed the current, and, with amazing
pluck and fortitude, worked about amid the submerged cactus and
chaparral, which must have wounded them savagely, holding the sheep
together. Finally, after desperate urging, a wether was induced to
breast the rush of the arroyo and landed safely high and dry on the
hither bank, when, thanks to their disposition to follow a leader, all
plunged in, and, after a vigorous push, found their perils at an end.
But the count showed some six hundred missing.
It ceased raining toward four o'clock, and the sun set in great
splendor. The next day the water had quite subsided, and I went,
unsuccessfully, after plover over the bed of yesterday's river, but the
beauty of the creek had been destroyed for the season. And farther down,
where the flood had come at midnight, it had swept away many lives.
In November, when the broom on the sides of the hills was a fine
pink-brown, and when the wet places which the flood had left abounded in
jack-snipe and afforded the neatest shooting in the world, I turned my
back upon the ranch, where I had been very prodigal of the best of
riches,--"the loose change of time." I did so with a warm feeling of
regret,--a feeling somewhat tempered by the thought that I should soon
be in a region of homes, constant greetings, and the morning newspapers.
But after a few weeks of the morning newspapers it has been borne in
upon me that a great deal is to be said for the place which does not
know them.