I had returned to my blanket, and was about to stretch myself upon it,
when the whoop of a gruya drew my attention. Looking up, I saw one of
these birds flying towards the camp. It was coming through a break in
the trees that opened from the river. It flew low, and tempted a shot
with its broad wings, and slow, lazy flight.
A report rang upon the air. One of the Mexicans had fired his
escopette; but the bird flew on, plying its wings with more energy, as
if to bear itself out of reach.