Early as are the white men astir, yet earlier are the red ones. For the
Coyoteros, like the animal from which they derive their tribal name, do
more of their prowling by night than by day. Moreover, it is the sultry
season, and they design reaching Nauchampa-tepetl before the sun gets so
high and hot as to make travelling uncomfortable. Even savages are not
averse to comfort; though these are now thinking more about that of
their horses than their own. They are on an expedition that will need
keeping the animals up to their best strength; and journeying in the
noon hours would distress and pull them down.
So nearly an hour before dawn declines itself they are up and active,
moving about in the dim light, silent as spectres. Silent, not from any
fear of betraying their presence to an enemy--they know of none likely
to be near--but because it is their habit.
What they first do is to shift the picket-pins of their horses, or give
greater length to the trail-ropes, in order that the animals may get a
bite of clean fresh grass, that on which they were tethered throughout
the night being now trampled down.
Next, they proceed to take care of themselves--to fortify the inner man
with a bit of breakfast. No fire is needed for the cooking it, and none
is kindled. The _mezcal_ and horse-meat pie has been baking all the
night; and now, near morning, they know it will be ready--done to a
turn. It but needs the turf lifted off their primitive oven, and the
contents extracted.
Five or six, detailed for the task, at once set about it; first taking
off the top sods, now calcined and still smoking. Then the loose mould,
which the fire has converted into ashes, is removed with more care. It
is hot, and needs handling gingerly; but the savage _cuisiniers_ know
how, and soon the black bundle is exposed to view, the hide now hairless
and charred, but moist and reeking. It still adheres sufficiently to
bear hoisting out, without fear of spilling the contents; and at length
it is so lifted and carried to a clean spot of sward. Then cut open and
spread out, there is displayed a steaming savoury mass, whose appetising
odour, borne upward and outward on the fresh morning air, inspires every
redskin around with delightful anticipations.
And not without reason either. To say nothing of the baked horseflesh--
by many _gourmets_ esteemed a delectable dish--the corn of the _mezcal_,
treated thus, is a viand palatable as peculiar. And peculiar it is,
bearing resemblance to nothing I either know or can think of. In
appearance it is much like candied citron, with a sweetish taste too,
only firmer and darker in colour. But while eating it the tongue seems
penetrated with a thousand tiny darts; a sort of prinkling sensation,
quite indescribable, and, to one unaccustomed to it, not altogether
agreeable. In time this passes away; and he who has made the experiment
of eating _mezcal_ comes to like it exceedingly. Many grand people
among the whites regard it in the light of a luxury; and as such it has
found its way into most Mexican towns--even the capital itself--where it
commands a high price.
With the Apache Indians, as already said, it is a staple food, even
giving their tribal name to one branch of this numerous nation--the
Mezcaleros. But all eat of it alike, and the Coyoteros, _en bivouac_,
show, by their knowledge of how to prepare it, that baked _mezcal_ is
noways new to them.
At the word "ready!" they gather around the hot steaming mass; and,
regardless of scorched lips or tongues, set upon it with knife and
tooth.
Soon the skin is cleaned out, every scrap of its contents eaten. They
could eat the hide too, and would, were there a pinch. But there is
none such now, and it is left for their namesakes, the coyotes.
A smoke follows the Homeric repast, for all American Indians are
addicted to the use of the nicotian weed. They were so before the
caravels of Columbus spread sail on the Haytian seas.
Every Coyotero in camp has his pipe and pouch of tobacco, be it genuine
or adulterated; this depending on how their luck has been running, or
how recent their latest raid upon some settlement of the palefaces.
Pipes smoked out and returned to their places of deposit, all are afoot
again. Nothing more now but to draw picket-pins, coil up trail-ropes,
mount, and move off; for their horse caparison, scant and easily
adjusted, is already on.
The chief gives the order "to horse," not in words, but by example--
springing upon the back of his own. Then they ride off, as before, in
formation "by twos," each file falling into rank as the line lengthens
out upon the plain.
Scarce is the last file clear of the abandoned camp-ground ere this
becomes occupied by animated beings of another kind--wolves, whose
howling has been heard throughout all the night. Having scented the
slaughtered horse, these now rush simultaneously towards it, to dispute
the banquet of bones.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shortly after leaving the camp the marching redskins lose sight of the
Cerro. This is accounted for by a dip in the plain, with a ridgelike
swell beyond, which runs transversely to their course. The hollow
continues for several miles before the mountain will be again in view;
but, well knowing the way, they need not this to guide them. Nor are
they in any particular hurry. They can reach their intended
halting-place by the lake long ere the sun becomes sultry, there to lie
up till the cool hours of evening. So they move leisurely along, and
with a purpose--to spare the sinews of their horses.
They talk enough now, loudly and laughingly. They have slept well, and
breakfasted satisfactorily; besides, it is broad daylight, and no danger
to be apprehended, no fear of hostile surprise. For all that they keep
their eyes on the alert through habitude, every now and then scanning
the horizon around.
Soon they see that which gives them something serious to speak about.
Not upon the horizon, nor anywhere upon the plain, but up in the heavens
above it--birds. What of them? And what in their appearance to attract
the attention of the Coyoteros? Nothing, or not much, were the birds
other than they are. But they are vultures, black vultures of two
sorts--_gallinazos_ and _zopilotes_. Nor would the Indians think of
giving them a second glance were they soaring about in their ordinary
way, wheeling in circles and spirals. But they are not; instead,
passing overhead in straight onward flight, with a quick, earnest plying
of wings, evidently making for some point where they expect to stoop
upon carrion. Scores there are of them, straggled out in a long stream,
but all flying in one direction--the same in which the savages are
themselves proceeding--towards Nauchampa-tepetl.
What can be drawing the vultures thither? This the question which the
Indians ask one another, in their own formularies of speech; none able
to answer it, save by conjecture. Without in any way alarming, the
spectacle excites them; and they quicken their pace, eager to learn what
is attracting the birds. It should be something more than dead antelope
or deer, so many are tending towards it, and from so far. For their
high flight, straight onward, tells of their having been for some time
keeping the same course.
Hastening on up the slope of the swell, the dusky horsemen once more
catch sight of the mountain, there to see what brings them to an abrupt
halt--a filmy purplish haze hanging over its southern end, more
scattered higher up in the sky. Is it fog rising from the water they
know to be there? No: smoke, as their practised eyes tell them after
regarding it a moment. And with like celerity they interpret it, as
proceeding from the fire, or fires, of a camp. Other travellers,
anticipating them, are encamped by Nauchampa-tepetl,
Who? Opatas? Not likely. Sons of toil--_Indicos mansos_--slaves, as
these the _bravos_, their kindred only in race, scornfully call them--
the Opatas keep to their towns, and the patches of cultivation around
them. Improbable that they should have ventured into that wilderness so
far from home. More likely it is a party of palefaces; men in search of
that shining metal which, as the Apaches know, has often lured their
white enemies into the very heart of the desert, their own domain, and
to destruction--themselves the destroyers. If the smoke of those camp
fires they now see be over such a party, then is it doomed--at least so
mentally resolve the red centaurs, hoping it may be thus.
While still gazing at the blue cloud, taking its measure, and discussing
the probabilities of who and what sort of men may be under it, another
appears before their eyes; this whiter and of smaller size--a mere puff
suddenly rising over the crest of the _mesa_, and separating from it as
it drifts higher.
From the fire of a gun, or guns, as the Coyoteros can tell, though not
by any crack of one having reached their ears, since none has. In the
rarefied atmosphere of the high-lying _llanos_ the eye has the advantage
of the ear, sounds being heard only at short distance. They are still
more than ten miles from the mountain, and the report of a cannon,
discharged on its summit, would be barely audible to them.
Still staying at halt, but keeping to their horses, the chief and others
in authority enter into consultation. And while they are deliberating
on the best course to be pursued, still another puff of smoke shoots up
over the _mesa_, similar to that preceding, but at a different point.
It aids them in coming to conclusions; for now they are sure there is a
camp of palefaces by the pond; and they above are hunters who have gone
up to get game, which the Indians know to be there in abundance.
But what sort of palefaces? Of this they are not sure. Knowing it to
be a miners' camp, they would ride straight on for it, in gallop. But
it may be an encampment of _soldados_, which would make a difference.
Not that the Coyoteros are afraid to encounter Mexican soldiers--far
from it. Rather would they rejoice at finding it these. For their
tribe, their own branch of it, has an old score against the men in
uniform; and nothing would please them better than an opportunity to
settle it. Indeed, partly to seek this, with purposes of plunder
combined, are they now on the _war-trail_. Only in their mode of action
would there be a difference, in the event of the encampment turning out
to be occupied by _soldados_. Soldiers in that quarter should be
cavalry, and to approach them caution would be called for, with
strategy. But these red centaurs are soldiers themselves--veterans,
skilled, cunning strategists--and now give proof of it. For the time
has come for them to advance; which they do, not straight forward nor in
single body, but broken into two bands, one facing right, the other
left, with a design to enfilade the camp by approaching it from opposite
points. Separating at the start, the two cohorts soon diverge wide
apart, both making for the mountain, but with the intention to reach its
southern end on different sides.
If the black vultures, still in streaming flight above, have hopes of
getting a repast there, they may now feel assured of its being a
plenteous one.