I had no mark to guide me, either on the earth or in the heavens. I had
an indefinite idea that the chase had led westward, and therefore to get
back to the prairie, I ought to head towards the east.
But how was I to distinguish east from west? In the chapparal both were
alike, and so too upon the sky. No sun was visible; the canopy of
heaven was of a uniform leaden colour; upon its face were no signs by
which the cardinal points could have been discovered.
Had I been in the midst of a forest surrounded by a northern _sylva_, I
could have made out my course. The oak or the elm, the ash-tree or
maple, the beech or sycamore--any of them would have been compass
sufficient for me; but in that thicket of thorny shrubs I was completely
at fault. It was a subtropical flora--or rather a vegetation of the
arid desert--to which I was almost a stranger. I knew there were men
skilled in the craft of the chapparal, who, in the midst of it, could
tell north from south without compass or stars. Not I.
I could think of no better mode than to trust to the guidance of my
horse. More than once, when lost in the thick forest or on the
boundless plain, had I reposed a similar trust in his instincts--more
than once had he borne me out of my bewilderment.
But whither could he take me? Back to the path by which we had come?
Probably enough, had that path led to a home; but it did not: my poor
steed, like myself, had no home. He, too, was a ranger; for years had
been flitting from place to place,--hundreds, ay, thousands of miles
from each other. Long had he forgotten his native stall.
I surmised that if there was water near, his instinct might carry him to
that--and much needed it both horse and rider. Should we reach a
running stream, it would serve as a guide.