The sun is hot all the second day, and scorches us in the dry defile. It adds to our thirst; but we do not regret, this so much, knowing it will hasten the departure of the savages. Towards evening, the tasajo begins to look brown and shrivelled. Another such day and it will be ready for packing. Our water is out, and we chew the succulent slices of the cactus. These relieve our thirst without quenching it. Our appetite of hunger is growing stronger. We have eaten all the pinons, and nothing remains but to slaughter one of our horses. "Let us hold out till to-morrow," suggests one. "Give the poor brutes a chance. Who knows but what they may flit in the morning?" This proposition is voted in the affirmative. No hunter cares to risk losing his horse, especially when out upon the prairies. Gnawed by hunger, we lie waiting for the third day. The morning breaks at last, and we crawl forward as usual, to watch the movements of the camp. The savages sleep late, as on yesterday; but they arouse themselves at length, and after watering their animals, commence cooking. We see the crimson streaks and the juicy ribs smoking over the fires, and the savoury odours are wafted to us on the breeze. Our appetites are whetted to a painful keenness. We can endure no longer. A horse must die! Whose? Mountain law will soon decide. Eleven white pebbles and a black one are thrown into the water-bucket, and one by one we are blinded and led forward. I tremble as I place my hand in the vessel. It is like throwing the die for my own life. "Thank Heaven! my Moro is safe!" One of the Mexicans has drawn the black. "Thar's luck in that!" exclaims a hunter. "Good fat mustang better than poor bull any day!" The devoted horse is in fact a well-conditioned animal; and placing our videttes again, we proceed to the thicket to slaughter him. We set about it with great caution. We tie him to a tree, and hopple his fore and hind feet, lest he may struggle. We propose bleeding him to death. The cibolero has unsheathed his long knife, while a man stands by, holding the bucket to catch the precious fluid: the blood. Some have cups in their hands, ready to drink it as it flows! We were startled by an unusual sound. We look through the leaves. A large grey animal is standing by the edge of the thicket, gazing in at us. It is wolfish-looking. Is it a wolf? No. It is an Indian dog! The knife is stayed; each man draws his own. We approach the animal, and endeavour to coax it nearer. But no; it suspects our intentions, utters a low growl, and runs away down the defile. We follow it with our eyes. The owner of the doomed horse is the vidette. The dog must pass him to get out, and he stands with his long lance ready to receive it. The animal sees himself intercepted, turns and runs back, and again turning, makes a desperate rush to pass the vidette. As he nears the latter, he utters a loud howl. The next moment he is impaled upon the lance!