We advanced, to find a
Mexican--rather well gotten up--who proceeded to wave his arms like a
parson who had reached "sixthly" in his sermon, and who proceeded
thereat to overwhelm us with his eloquence. The Quartermaster and I
"_buenos dias-ed_" and "_si, senor-ed_" him in our helpless Spanish, and
asked each other, nervously, "What de'll." After a long time he seemed
to be getting through with his subject, his sentences became separated,
he finally emitted monosyllables only along with his scowls, and we
tramped off into the brush. It was a pity he spent so much energy, since
it could only arouse our curiosity without satisfying it.
In camp that night we told the Captain of our excited Mexican friend out
in the brush, and our cook had seen sinister men on ponies passing near
our camp. The Captain became solicitous, and stationed a night-guard
over his precious government mules. It would never do to have a bandit
get away with a U. S. brand. It never does matter about private
property, but anything with U. S. on it has got to be looked after, like
a croupy child.
We had some good days' sport, and no more formidable enterprise against
the night-guard was attempted than the noisy approach of a white
jackass. The tents were struck and loaded when it began to rain. We
stood in the shelter of the escort-wagon, and the storm rose to a
hurricane. Our corral became a tank; but shortly the black clouds passed
north, and we pulled out.
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