The top of the mesa was disappointing as far as game was concerned. It
was covered all over with red stones, round, and as large as a man's
head. Thornbushes found some sort of sustenance in the interstices.
But we had gained to a magnificent view. Below us lay the narrow flat,
then the winding jungle of our river, then long rolling desert country,
gray with thorn scrub, sweeping upward to the base of castellated buttes
and one tremendous riven cliff mountain, dropping over the horizon to a
very distant blue range. Behind us eight or ten miles away was the low
ridge through which our journey had come. The mesa on which we stood
broke back at right angles to admit another stream flowing into our own.
Beyond this stream were rolling hills, and scrub country, the hint of
blue peaks and illimitable distances falling away to the unknown Tara
Desert and the sea.
There seemed to be nothing much to be gained here, so we made up our
minds to cut across the mesa, and from the other edge of it to overlook
the valley of the tributary river. This we would descend until we came
to our horses.
Accordingly we stumbled across a mile or so of those round and rolling
stones. Then we found ourselves overlooking a wide flat or pocket where
the stream valley widened. It extended even as far as the upward fling
of the barrier ranges. Thick scrub covered it, but erratically, so that
here and there were little openings or thin places. We sat down, manned
our trusty prism glasses, and gave ourselves to the pleasing occupation
of looking the country over inch by inch.
This is great fun. It is a game a good deal like puzzle pictures.
Re-examination generally develops new and unexpected beasts. We repeated
to each other aloud the results of our scrutiny, always without removing
the glasses from our eyes.
“Oryx, one,” said F.; “oryx, two.”
“Giraffe,” reported B., “and a herd of impalla.”