The sun sets in gorgeous splendour over the plain and upon the grey-blue hills, and the short tropic twilight gives place to darkness, save perchance as the silvery moon of Mexico may cast its peaceful beams over the desolate landscape. Cigarettes and coffee are finished. No sound breaks the silence; our men's tales are all told as they crouch round the campfire. We have sought our couch and turned in, bidding the _peones_ look to the horses, which, tethered near at hand, champ their oats or maize contentedly, giving from time to time that half-human sign with which the equine expresses his contentment and comfortable weariness. All is still. Sleep falls upon us.... Hark! what is that? A long mournful howl comes from the plain and winds through the canyon, and is repeated in chorus. "What is it, Jose?" I call to my _mozo_ and the other men. "Coyotes, Senor," he replies, "they are crying to heaven for rain." Of course, I had forgotten for a moment that they have this habit, and the sound seemed almost unearthly. To return to the game. We are going a-hunting to-day. The great barren plains and sterile rocky ribs which intersect them, the stony foothills and the dry _arroyos_ do not seem to offer much prospect of sport. But our friend the Mexican _hacendado_, who has ridden up from his _hacienda_ for the purpose of inviting us, assures us to the contrary. And, indeed, his words are soon justified. He and his men have led us far away towards the head of the canyon, and the dry stream-bed is fringed with _mesquite_ and cactus which might offer shelter to quarry of some nature. A dozen dark forms start suddenly from the shadow of the bank upon whose verge we stand. Bang! bang! bang! In the twinkling of an eye we had dismounted, flung our horses' reins to the attendant _mozos_, and pointed our Winchesters. Several of the dark forms lie upon the sand below, inert; the others, already squealing far enough off, scrambling away. What are they? "_Javelines_, Senor," the _mozos_ make reply. They are peccaries. A good bag indeed and excellent eating, as their ribs, roasted over a fire at the bottom of the _arroyo_, attest. Later on we look round for our host, but he is away after a plump _venado_--deer--which, passing near at hand, proves too strong for the sportsman's instinct. But the night falls ere he returns. "Never mind," is his greeting, "although we have to sleep here we may eat good venison," and across the horse of his _mozo_ lies the drooping body of the deer, its eyes glazed in death, and the blood still dripping from the bullet wound which laid it low.