The phrase, "_ojo de agua_" (the water's eye), is simply the Mexican
name for a spring; which Henry Tresillian needs not to be told, being
already acquainted with the pretty poetical appellation. And he now
sees the thing itself but a few paces ahead, gurgling up in a little
circular basin, and sending off the stream which supplies the lake
below.
In an instant they are upon its edge, to find it clear as crystal, the
_gambusino_ saying, as he unslings his drinking-cup of cow's horn,
"I can't resist taking a swill of it, notwithstanding the gallons I had
swallowed overnight. After such a long spell of short-water rations,
one feels as though he could never again get enough." Then filling the
horn, and almost instantly emptying it, he concludes with the
exclamation "_Delicioso_!"
His companion drinks also, but from a cup of solid silver; vessels of
this metal, even of gold, being aught but rare among the master-miners
of Sonora.
They are about to continue on, when lo! a flock of large birds by the
edge of the open. On the ground these are--having just come out from
among the bushes--moving leisurely along, with beaks now and then
lowered to the earth; in short, feeding as turkeys in a pasture field.
And turkeys they are, the Mexican saying in a whisper:
"_Los guajalotes_!"
So like are they to the domestic bird--only better shaped and every way
more beautiful--that Henry Tresillian has no difficulty in identifying
them as its wild progenitors. One of superior size, an old cock, is at
their head, striding to and fro in all the pride of his glittering
plumage, which, under the beams of the new-risen sun, shows hues vivid
and varied as those of the rainbow. A very sultan he seems, followed by
a train of sultanas and their attendants; for there are young birds in
the flock, fledglings, that differ in appearance from the old ones.
Suddenly the grand satrap erects his head, and with neck craned out,
utters a note of alarm. Too late. "Bang--bang!" from the
double-barrel--the sharper crack of the rifle sounding simultaneously--
and the old cock, with three of his satellites, lies prostrate upon the
earth, the rest taking flight with terrified screeches, and a clatter of
wings loud as the "whirr" of a threshing machine.
"Not a bad beginning," quietly observes the _gambusino_, as they stand
over the fallen game. "Is it, senorito?"
"Anything but that," answers the young Englishman, delighted at having
secured such a good bottom for their bag. "But what are we to do with
them? We can't carry them along."
"Certainly not," rejoins the Mexican. "Nor need. Let them lie where
they are till we come back. But no," he adds, correcting himself.
"That will never do. There are wolves up here, no doubt--certainly
coyotes, if no other kind--and on return we might find only feathers.
So we must string them up out of reach."
The stringing up is a matter which occupies only a few minutes' time;
done by one leg thrust through the opened sinew of the other to form a
loop; then the birds hoisted aloft, and hung upon the up-curving arms of
a tall _pitahaya_.
"And now, on!" says the _gambusino_, after re-loading guns. "Let us
hope we may come across something in the four-legged line, big enough to
give everybody a bit of fresh meat for dinner. Likely we'll have to
tramp a good way before sighting any; the report of our guns will have
frighted both birds and beasts, and sent all to the farthest side of the
_mesa_. But no matter for that. I want to go there direct, and at
once, for a reason, _muchacho_, I've not yet made known to you."
While speaking, an anxious expression has shown itself on the
_gambusino's_ face, which, taken in connection with his last words,
leads Henry Tresillian to suspect something in, or on, his mind, beside
the desire to kill game. Moreover, before leaving the camp he had
noticed that the Mexican seemed to act in a manner more excited than was
his wont--as if in a great hurry to get away. That, no doubt, for the
reason he now hints at; though what it is the young Englishman cannot
even give a guess.
"May I know it now?" he asks, with some eagerness, noting the grave
look.
"Certainly you may, and shall," frankly responds the Mexican. "I would
have told you sooner, and the others as well, but for not being sure
about it. I didn't like to cause an alarm in the camp without good
reason. And I hope still there's none. After all it may not have been
smoke."
"Smoke! What?"
"What I saw, or thought I saw, yesterday evening, just after we arrived
by the lake's edge."
"Where?"
"To the north-east--a long way off."
"But if it was a smoke, what would that signify?"
"In this part of the world, much. It might mean danger; ay, death."
"You astonish--mystify me, Senor Vicente. How could it mean that?"
"There's no mystery in it, _muchacho_. Where smoke is seen there should
be fire; and a fire on these _llanos_ is likely to be one with Indians
around it. Now do you understand the danger I'm thinking of?"
"I do. But I thought there were no Indians in this part of the country,
except the Opatas; and they are Christianised, dwelling in towns."
"True, all that. But the Opata towns are far from here, and in an
entirely different direction--the very opposite. If smoke it was, the
fire that made it wasn't one kindled by Opatas, but men who only
resemble them in the colour of their skin--Indians, too."
"What Indians do you suspect?"
"_Los Apaches_."
"Danger indeed, if they be in the neighbourhood." The young Englishman
has been long enough in Sonora to have acquaintance with the character
of these cruel savages. "But I hope they're not," he adds, trustfully,
still with some apprehension, as his thoughts turn to those below.
"That hope I heartily echo," rejoins the Mexican, "for if they be about,
we've got to look out for the skin of our heads. But come, _muchacho
mio_! Don't let us be down in the mouth till we're sure there _is_ a
danger. As I've said, I'm not even sure of having seen smoke at all.
It might have been a dust-whirl, just as I noticed the thing, the
_estampeda_ commenced; and after it the rush for water, which of course
took off my attention. When that was over, and I again turned my eyes
north-eastward, it was too dark to distinguish smoke or anything else.
I then looked for a light all along the sky-line, and also several times
during the night--luckily to see none. For all I can't help having
fears. A man who's once been prisoner to the Apaches never travels
through a district where they are like to be encountered without some
apprehension. Mine ought to be of the keenest. I've not only been
their prisoner, but rather roughly handled, as no doubt you'll admit
after looking at this."
Saying which, the Mexican opens his shirt-front, laying bare his breast;
on which appears a disc, bearing rude resemblance to a "death's head,"
burnt deep into the skin.
"They gave me that brand," he continues, "just by way of amusing
themselves. They meant to have further diversion out of it by using me
as a target, and it for a centre mark at one of their shooting matches.
Luckily, before that came off, I found the chance of giving them
leg-bail. Now, _muchacho_, you'll better understand my anxiety to be up
here so early, and why I want to push on to the other end. _Vamonos_!"
Shouldering their guns, they proceed onward; now at slower pace, their
progress obstructed by thick-growing bushes and trees, with _llianas_
interlacing. For beyond the spring there is neither stream nor path,
save here and there a slight trace, often tortuous, which tells of the
passage of wild animals wandering to and fro. The hunters are pleased
to see it thus; still more when the Mexican, noting some hoof-marks in a
spot of soft ground, pronounces them tracks of the _carnero cimmaron_.
"I thought we'd find some of the bighorn gentry up here," he says; "and
if all the caravan don't this day dine on roast mutton, it'll be because
Pedro Vicente isn't the proper man to be its purveyor. Still, we
mustn't stop to go after the sheep now. True, we've begun the day
hunting, but before proceeding farther with that, we must make sure we
shan't have to end it fighting. Ssh!"
The sibillatory exclamation has reference to a noise heard a little way
off, like the stroke of a hoof upon hard turf, several times rapidly
repeated. And simultaneous with it another sound, as the snort or bark
of some animal.
"That's a _carnero_, now!" says the Mexican, _sotto voce_; as he speaks,
coming to a stop and laying hold of the other's arm to restrain him.
"Since the game offers itself without going after, or out of our way, we
may as well secure a head or two. Like the turkeys, it can be strung up
till our return."
Of course his _compagnon de chasse_ is of the same mind. He but longs
to empty his double-barrel again, all the more at such grand game, and
rejoins, saying, "Just so; it can."
Without further speech they stalk cautiously forward, to reach the edge
of another opening, and there behold another flock--not of birds, but
quadrupeds. Deer they might seem at the first glance, to eyes
unacquainted with them; and for such Henry Tresillian might mistake
them, but that they show no antlers; instead, horns of a character
proclaiming them sheep.
Sheep they are, wild ones, different from the domesticated animal as
greyhound from dachshund. No short legs nor low bodies theirs; no bushy
tails, nor tangle of wool to encumber them. Instead, coats clean and
smooth, with limbs long, sinewy, and supple as those of stag itself.
Several pairs of horns are visible in the flock, one pair spirally
curving much larger than any of the others; indeed, of such dimensions,
and seeming weight, as to make it a wonder how the old ram, their owner,
can hold up his head. Yet is it he who is holding head highest; the
same who had snorted, hammering the ground with his hoof.
He has done so, repeatedly, since; the last time to be the last in his
life. Through the leafy branches, cautiously parted, shoots out a
double jet of flame and smoke; three cracks are heard; then again there
is dead game on the ground.
This time, however, counting less in heads; only one--that carrying the
grand curvature of horns. Alone the leader of the flock has fallen to
the second fusillade, killed by the rifle's bullet. For the shot from
the double-barrel, though hitting too, has glanced off the thick
felt-like coats of the _carneros_ as from a corslet of steel.
"_Carrai_!" exclaims the _gambusino_, with a vexed air, as they step up
to the fallen quarry. "This time we haven't done so well--in fact,
worse than nothing."
"But why?" queries the young Englishman, in wonder at the other's
strange words and ways, after having made such a big kill.
"Why, you ask, senorito! Don't your nostrils tell you? _Mil diablos_!
how the brute stinks!"
Truth he speaks, as his hunting companion, now standing over the dead
body of the bighorn, can well perceive--sensible of an offensive odour
arising from it as that of ram in the rutting season.
"What a fool I've been to spend bullet upon him!" continues the Mexican,
without awaiting rejoinder. "Nor was it his great bulk or horns that
tempted me. No; all through thinking of that other thing, which made me
careless which of them I aimed at."
"What other thing?"
"The smoke. Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk nor any to bother
more about the brute. It's only fit food for coyotes; and the sooner
they get it into their bellies the better. Faugh! Let us away from
it."