early start and pushed on and on through the wild bushland, stopping
occasionally to spy round from some vantage-point. We would swelter
up a hill, down into the next valley among the lovely tall trees
that lined the brook, cross the cool, rock-strewn stream, and on
again. The sable fed in the open only in the very early morning
till about nine o’clock, then they would retreat into the thickets
and doze until four or five in the afternoon, when they would again
come out to feed. During the intervening time our only chance was
to run across them by luck, or find fresh tracks to follow. On that
particular day we climbed a high hill about noon to take a look round
and have a couple of hours’ siesta. I found a shady tree and sat
down with my back against the trunk. Ten miles or so away sparkled
and shimmered the Indian Ocean. On all sides stretched the wonderful
bushland, here and there in the distance broken by little patches of
half-cultivated land. There had been a rain-storm in the morning, but
now the sun was shining undimmed. Taking from my hunting-coat pocket
Borrow’s _Wild Wales_, I was soon climbing far-distant Snowdon with
Lavengro, and was only brought back to realities by Juma, who came
up to discuss the afternoon’s campaign. We had scarcely begun when
one of the Shenzies, whom I had sent to watch from a neighboring
hill, came up in great excitement to say that he had found a large
sable bull. We hurried along after him, and presently he pointed to
a thicket ahead of us. Leaving the rest behind, Juma and I proceeded
cautiously toward the thicket. We found two sable cows, which Juma
felt sure were all that there were in the thicket, whereas I could
not help putting some faith in the Shenzi who had been very insistent
about the “big bull.” I was convinced at length that Juma was right,
so I took aim at the better of the cows. My shooting was poor, for
I only crippled her, and when I moved up close for a final shot she
attempted to charge, snorting savagely, but too badly hit to cause
any trouble.
We had spent some time searching for the bull, so that by the time
we had the skin off, the brief African twilight was upon us. We had
been hunting very hard for the last week, and were all of us somewhat
fagged, but as we started toward camp I soon forgot my weariness in
the magic of the night. Before the moon rose we trooped silently
along, no one speaking, but all listening to the strange noises of
the wilderness. We were following a rambling native trail, which
wound along a deep valley beside a stream for some time before it
struck out across the hills for camp. There was but little game in
the country, still occasionally we would hear a buck that had winded
us crashing off, or some animal splashing across the stream. In the
more open country the noise of the cicadas, loud and incessant,
took me back to the sound of the katydids in summer nights on Long
Island. The moon rose large and round, outlining the tall ivory-nut
palms. It was as if we were marching in fairyland, and with real
regret I at length caught the gleam of the camp-fire through the
trees.
[Illustration: Across the bay from Mombasa; the porters ready to
shoulder loads and march]
It was after ten o’clock, when we had had something to eat, but Juma,
Kasitura, and I gathered to work on the sable, and toiled until we
began to nod off to sleep as we skinned.
Next morning I paid my last visit to the old Sultani, rewarding him
as I had promised and solemnly agreeing to come back and live with
him in his country. The porters were joyful, as is always the case
when they are headed for Mombasa. Each thought of the joyous time he
would have spending his earnings, and they sang in unison as they
swung along the trail--careless, happy children. I, too, was in the
best of spirits, for my quest had been successful, and I was not
returning empty-handed.
III
The Sheep of the Desert
III
THE SHEEP OF THE DESERT
I wished to hunt the mountain-sheep of the Mexican desert, hoping to
be able to get a series needed by the National Museum.
At Yuma, on the Colorado River, in the extreme southwestern corner of
Arizona, I gathered my outfit. Doctor Carl Lumholtz, the explorer,
had recently been travelling and hunting in that part of Mexico.
In addition to much valuable help as to outfitting, he told me how
to get hold of a Mexican who had been with him and whom he had
found trustworthy. The postmaster, Mr. Chandler, and Mr. Verdugo, a
prominent business man, had both been more than kind in helping in
every possible way. Mr. Charles Utting, clerk of the District Court,
sometime Rough Rider, and inveterate prospector, was to start off
with me for a short holiday from judicial duties. To him the desert
was an open book, and from long experience he understood all the
methods and needs of desert travel. Mr. Win Proebstel, ranchman and
prospector, was also to start with us. He had shot mountain-sheep
all the way from Alaska to Mexico, and was a mine of first-hand
information as to their habits and seasons. I had engaged two
Mexicans, Cipriano Dominguez and Eustacio Casares.
On the afternoon of the 10th of August we reached Wellton, a little
station on the Southern Pacific, some forty miles east of Yuma. Win
and his brother, Ike Proebstel, were ready with a wagon, which the
latter was to drive to a water-hole some sixteen miles south, near
some mining claims of Win’s. August is the hottest month in the year
in that country, a time when on the desert plains of Sonora the
thermometer marks 140 degrees; so we decided to take advantage of
a glorious full moon and make our first march by night. We loaded
as much as we could of our outfit into the wagon, so as to save our
riding and pack animals. We started at nine in the evening. The moon
rode high. At first the desert stretched in unbroken monotony on all
sides, to the dim and far-off mountains. In a couple of hours we came
to the country of the saguaro, the giant cactus. All around us, their
shafts forty or fifty feet high, with occasional branches set at
grotesque angles to the trunk, they rose from the level floor of the
desert, ghostly in the moonlight. The air seemed cool in comparison
with the heat of the day, though the ground was still warm to the
touch.
Shortly before one in the morning we reached Win’s water-hole--tank,
in the parlance of the country--and were soon stretched out on our
blankets, fast asleep.
Next day we loaded our outfit on our two pack-mules and struck out
across the desert for the Tinajas Altas (High Tanks), which lay
on the slopes of a distant range of mountains, about four miles
from the Mexican border. For generations these tanks have been a
well-known stepping-stone in crossing the desert. There are a series
of them, worn out in the solid rock and extending up a cleft in
the mountainside, which, in time of rain, becomes the course of a
torrent. The usual camping-place is a small plateau, a couple of
hundred yards from the lowest tank. This plateau lies in a gulch and
is sheltered on either hand by its steep and barren sides. A few
hundred feet from the entrance, on the desert and scattered about
among the cactus, lie some hundred and fifty graves--the graves
of men who have died of thirst; for this is a grim land, and death
dogs the footsteps of those who cross it. Most of the dead men were
Mexicans who had struggled across the deserts only to find the tanks
dry. Each lay where he fell, until, sooner or later, some other
traveller found him and scooped out for him a shallow grave, and
on it laid a pile of rocks in the shape of a rude cross. Forty-six
unfortunates perished here at one time of thirst. They were making
their way across the deserts to the United States, and were in the
last stages of exhaustion for lack of water when they reached these
tanks. But a Mexican outlaw named Blanco reached the tanks ahead of
them and bailed out the water, after carefully laying in a store for
himself not far away. By this cache he waited until he felt sure that
his victims were dead; he then returned to the tanks, gathered the
possessions of the dead, and safely made his escape.
A couple of months previously a band of insurrectos had been camped
by these tanks, and two newly made graves marked their contribution.
The men had been killed in a brawl.
Utting told us of an adventure that took place here, a few years ago,
which very nearly had a tragic termination. It was in the winter
season and there was an American camped at the tanks, when two
Mexicans came there on their way to the Tule tanks, twenty-five miles
away, near which they intended to do some prospecting. Forty-eight
hours after they had left, one of them turned up riding their
pack-mule and in a bad way for water. He said that they had found
the Tule tanks dry, but had resolved to have one day’s prospecting
anyway; they had separated, but agreed at what time they were to
meet. Although he waited for a long while after the agreed time, his
companion never appeared, and he was forced to start back alone.
Twenty-four hours after the return of this Mexican, the American
was awakened in the night by hearing strange sounds in the bed of
the arroyo. When he went down to investigate them he found the lost
Mexican; he was in a fearful condition, totally out of his head, and
was vainly struggling to crawl up the bank of the arroyo, in order to
make the last hundred yards across the plateau to the water-hole. He
would never have reached it alone. By careful treatment the American
brought him round and then listened to his story. He had lost himself
when he went off prospecting, and when he finally got his bearings
he was already in a very bad way for water. Those dwelling in cool,
well-watered regions can hardly make themselves realize what thirst
means in that burning desert. He knew that although there was no
water in the Tule wells, there was some damp mud in the bottom, and
he said that all he wished to do was to reach the wells and cool
himself off in the mud before he died. A short distance from the
tanks the trail he was following divided, one branch leading to the
Tule wells and the other back to the Tinajas Altas, twenty-five miles
away. The Mexican was so crazed that he took the wrong branch, and
before he realized his mistake he had gone some way past Tule; he
then decided that it was the hand of providence that had led him
past, and that he must try to make Tinajas Altas; a feat which he
would have just missed accomplishing but for the American encamped
there.
The morning after we reached the tanks, the Tinah’alta, as they
are called colloquially, Win and I were up and off for the
hunting-grounds by half past three; by sun-up we were across the
border, and hunted along the foot of the mountains, climbing across
the out-jutting ridges. At about nine we reached the top of a ridge
and began looking around. Win called to me that he saw some sheep. We
didn’t manage things very skilfully, and the sheep took fright, but
as they stopped I shot at a fine ram, Win’s rifle echoing my shot. We
neither of us scored a hit, and missed several running shots. This
missing was mere bad luck on Win’s part, for he was a crack shot, and
later on that day, when we were not together, he shot a ram, only
part of which was visible, at a distance of three hundred and fifty
yards. As the sun grew hotter we hunted farther up on the mountains,
but we saw no more sheep, and returned to camp with Utting, who met
us at a ravine near the border.
[Illustration: A desert camp in old Mexico]
After we got back to camp, Win and I filled some canteens, threw our
blankets on one of the pack-mules, took Dominguez, and rode back
over the border to camp in the dry bed of an arroyo near where we
had been hunting in the morning. We sent back the animals, arranging
with Dominguez to return with them the following day. Next morning
at a little after three we rolled out of our blankets, built a little
fire of mesquite wood, and after a steaming cup of coffee and some
cold frying-pan bread we shouldered our rifles and set out. At the
end of several hours’ steady walking I got a chance at a fair ram
and missed. I sat down and took out my field-glasses to try to see
where he went; and I soon picked up three sheep standing on a great
boulder, near the foot of a mountain of the same range that we were
on. They were watching us and were all ewes, but I wanted one for the
museum. So I waited till they lost interest in us, got down from the
rock, and disappeared from our sight. I then left Win and started
toward the boulder; after some rather careful stalking I got one of
them at about two hundred yards by some fairly creditable shooting.
The side of the mountain range along which we were hunting was cut by
numerous deep gullies from two to three hundred yards across. After I
had dressed the ewe I thought I would go a little way farther, on the
chance of coming upon the ram I had missed; for he had disappeared in
that direction. When I had crossed three or four ridges I sat down to
look around. It was about half past nine, the heat was burning,
and I knew the sheep would soon be going up the mountains to seek the
shelter of the caves in which they spend the noonday hours. Suddenly
I realized that there were some sheep on the side of the next ridge
standing quietly watching me. There were four bunches, scattered
among the rocks; three were of ewes and young, and there was one
bunch of rams; in all there were sixteen sheep. I picked out the best
ram, and, estimating the distance at two hundred and fifty yards,
I fired, hitting, but too low. I failed to score in the running
shooting, but when he was out of sight I hurried over and picked up
the trail; he was bleeding freely, and it was not difficult to follow
him. He went half a mile or so and then lay down in a rock cave; but
he was up and off before I could labor into sight, and made a most
surprising descent down the side of a steep ravine. When I caught
sight of him again he was half-way up the opposite wall of the ravine
though only about a hundred yards distant; he was standing behind a
large rock with only his quarters visible, but one more shot brought
matters to a finish. The heat was very great, so I started right
to work to get the skin off. A great swarm of bees gathered to the
feast. They were villainous-looking, and at first they gave me many
qualms, but we got used to each other and I soon paid no attention
to them, merely brushing them off any part that I wanted to skin. I
was only once stung, and that was when a bee got inside my clothing
and I inadvertently squeezed it. Before I had finished the skinning
I heard a shot from Win; I replied, and a little while afterward he
came along. I shall not soon forget packing the skin, with the head
and the leg-bones still in it, down that mountainside. In addition to
being very heavy, it made an unwieldy bundle, as I had no rope with
which to tie it up. I held the head balanced on one shoulder, with
a horn hooked round my neck; the legs I bunched together as best I
could, but they were continually coming loose and causing endless
trouble. After I reached the bottom, I left Win with the sheep and
struck off for our night’s camping-place. It was after eleven and the
very hottest part of the day. I had to be careful not to touch any of
the metal part of my gun; indeed, the wooden stock was unpleasantly
hot, and I was exceedingly glad that there was to be water waiting
for me at camp.
I got Dominguez and the horses and brought in the sheep, which took
several hours. That afternoon we were back at Tinah’alta, with a
long evening’s work ahead of me skinning out the heads and feet by
starlight. Utting, who was always ready to do anything at any time,
and did everything well, turned to with a will and took the ewe off
my hands.
The next day I was hard at work on the skins. One of the tanks,
about four hundred yards from camp, was a great favorite with the
sheep, and more than once during our stay the men in camp saw sheep
come down to drink at it. This had generally happened when I was off
hunting; but on the morning when I was busy with the skins two rams
came down to drink. It was an hour before noon; for at this place
the sheep finished feeding before they drank. The wind was blowing
directly up the gulch to them, but although they stopped several
times to stare at the camp, they eventually came to the water-hole
and drank. Of course we didn’t disturb these sheep, for not only were
they in the United States, but they were drinking at a water-hole in
a desert country; and a man who has travelled the deserts, and is
any sort of a sportsman, would not shoot game at a water-hole unless
he were in straits for food.
I had been hunting on the extreme end of the Gila Range and near a
range called El Viejo Hombre (The Old Man). After I shot my ram, in
the confusion that followed, two of the young rams broke back, came
down the mountain, passing quite close to Win, and crossed the plain
to the Viejo Hombre Range, some mile and a half away. The bands of
sheep out of which I shot my specimens had been feeding chiefly on
the twigs of a small symmetrical bush, called by the Mexicans El
Yervo del Baso, the same, I believe, that Professor Hornaday in
his _Camp-Fires on Desert and Lava_ calls the white Brittle bush.
They had also been eating such galleta-grass as they could find;
it was on this grass that we depended for food for our horses and
mules. Apparently the sheep of these bands had not been going to the
water-hole; there were numerous places where they had been breaking
down cactus and eating the pulp. In this country Win said that the
rams and the ewes began to run together in October, and that in
February the young were born. When the rams left the ewes, they took
with them the yearling rams, and they didn’t join the ewes again
until the next October.
On the following day I left Utting and Proebstel and took the trail
to the Tule tank. The two Mexicans were with me and we had two horses
and three mules. We were travelling very light, for we were bound
for a country where water-holes were not only few and far between
but most uncertain. My personal baggage consisted of my washing kit,
an extra pair of shoes, a change of socks, and a couple of books.
Besides our bedding we had some coffee, tea, sugar, rice, flour (with
a little bacon to take the place of lard in making bread), and a good
supply of frijoles, or Mexican beans. It was on these last that we
really lived. As soon as we got to a camp we always put some frijoles
in a kettle and started a little fire to boil them. If we were to
be there for a couple of days we put in enough beans to last us the
whole time, and then all that was necessary in getting a meal ready
was to warm up the beans.
It was between four and five in the afternoon when we left
Tinah’alta, and though the moon did not rise until late, the stars
were bright and the trail was clear. The desert we were riding
through was covered with mesquite and creosote and innumerable
choya cactus; there were also two kinds of prickly-pear cactus, and
ocatillas were plentiful. The last are curious plants; they are
formed somewhat on the principle of an umbrella, with a very short
central stem from which sometimes as many as twenty spokes radiate
umbrella-wise. These spokes are generally about six feet long and are
covered with thorns which are partially concealed by tiny leaves.
The flower of the ocatilla is scarlet, and although most of them had
stopped flowering by August, there were a few still in bloom. After
about six hours’ silent riding we reached Tule. The word means a
marsh, but, needless to say, all that we found was a rock-basin with
a fair supply of water and a very generous supply of tadpoles and
water-lice.
Next morning when we came to get breakfast ready we found we had
lost, through a hole in a pack-sack, all of our eating utensils
except a knife and two spoons; but we were thankful at having got off
so easily. By three in the afternoon we were ready for what was to
be our hardest march. We wished to get into the Pinacate country;
and our next water was to be the Papago tank, which Casares said was
about forty-five miles south of us. He said that in this tank we were
always sure to find water.
For the first fifteen miles our route lay over the Camino del Diablo,
a trail running through the Tule desert--and it has proved indeed
a “road of the devil” for many an unfortunate. Then we left the
trail, the sun sank, twilight passed, and in spite of the brilliancy
of the stars, the going became difficult. In many places where
the ground was free from boulders the kangaroo-rats had made a
network of tunnels, and into these our animals fell, often sinking
shoulder-deep. Casares was leading, riding a hardy little white mule.
While he rode he rolled cigarette after cigarette, and as he bent
forward in his saddle to light them, for a moment his face would be
brought into relief by the burning match and a trail of sparks would
light up the succeeding darkness. Once his mule shied violently, and
we heard the angry rattling of a side-winder, a sound which once
heard is never forgotten.
At about eight o’clock, what with rocks and kangaroo-rat burrows, the
going became so bad that we decided to offsaddle and wait till the
moon should rise. We stretched out with our heads on our saddles and
dozed until about midnight, when it was time to start on again. Soon
the desert changed and we were free of the hills among which we had
been travelling, and were riding over endless rolling dunes of white
sand. As dawn broke, the twin peaks of Pinacate appeared ahead of us,
and the sand gave place to a waste of red and black lava, broken by
steep arroyos. We had been hearing coyotes during the night, and now
a couple jumped up from some rocks, a hundred yards away, and made
off amongst the lava.
By eight o’clock the sun was fiercely hot, but we were in among the
foot-hills of Pinacate. I asked Casares where the tanks were, and he
seemed rather vague, but said they were beyond the next hills. They
were not; but several times more he felt sure they were “just around
the next hill.” I realized that we were lost and resolved to give
him one more try, and then if I found that he was totally at sea as
to the whereabouts of the tank, I intended to find some shelter for
the heat of the day, and, when it got cooler, to throw the packs off
our animals and strike back to Tule. It is difficult to realize how
quickly that fierce sun dries up man and beast. I doubt if in that
country a really good walker could have covered ten miles in the
noonday heat without water and without stopping. We could have made
Tule all right, but the return trip would have been a very unpleasant
one, and we would probably have lost some of our animals.
However, just before we reached Casares’s last location of the Papago
tanks, we came upon an unknown water-hole, in the bed of an arroyo.
The rains there are very local, and although the rest of the country
was as dry as tinder, some fairly recent downpour had filled up this
little rocky basin. There were two trees near it, a mesquite and a
palo verde, and though neither would fit exactly into the category
of shade-trees, we were most grateful to them for being there at
all. The palo verde is very deceptive. When seen from a distance,
its greenness gives it a false air of being a lovely, restful screen
from the sun, but when one tries to avail oneself of its shade, the
fallacy is soon evident. It is only when there is some parasitical
mistletoe growing on it that the palo verde offers any real shade.
The horses were very thirsty, and it was a revelation to see how
they lowered the water in the pool.
Dominguez was only about thirty years old, but he seemed jaded and
tired, whereas Casares, who was white-haired, and must have been at
least sixty, was as fresh as ever. Two days later, when I was off
hunting on the mountains, Casares succeeded in finding the Papago
tanks; they were about fifteen miles to our northwest, and were as
dry as a bone! I later learned that a Mexican had come through this
country some three weeks before we were in there. He had a number of
pack-animals. When he found the Papago dry, he struck on for the next
water, and succeeded in making it only after abandoning his packs and
losing most of his horses.
We sat under our two trees during the heat of the day; but shortly
after four I took my rifle and my canteen and went off to look for
sheep, leaving the two Mexicans in camp. Although I saw no rams, I
found plenty of sign and got a good idea of the lay of the land.
[Illustration: Casares on his white mule]
The next four or five days I spent hunting from this camp. I was
very anxious to get some antelope, and I spent three or four days
in a fruitless search for them. It was, I believe, unusually
dry, even for that country, and the antelope had migrated to better
feeding-grounds. Aside from a herd of nine, which I saw from a long
way off but failed to come up with, not only did I not see any
antelope, but I did not even find any fresh tracks. There were many
very old tracks, and I have no doubt that, at certain times of the
year, there are great numbers of antelope in the country over which I
was hunting.