A Buffalo Hunt in Northern Mexico. 121 



thousands in -number, having slaked their thirst, were wending 

 slowly to fresh feeding-grounds. A man, joint keeper with our 

 guide, sat by the shore preparing his humble breakfast. Then I 

 knew how the pond made life possible out so far in the afflicted 

 land. The radius of the migration of herd and herdsmen might be 

 wide enough to take in the mountain showing off to our right, like a 

 dab of purple pigment. Whatever its boundary, however, this was 

 its center — this rippling sheet, clear and bright enough to live in my 

 memory another Diamond of the Desert. 



While the horses drank, and some of the more careful rancheros 

 refilled the water-gourds they habitually carried at their saddle-bows, 

 Don Miguel and the colonel interviewed the herdsmen, whose re- 

 plies were very satisfactory. Our game had spent the night in the 

 vicinity; the water the other side of the pond was muddy with their 

 wading ; he had even made fires to drive them away, and they left 

 about sunup, going toward the mountains. 



"You see the trees yonder?" he said; "well, two bulls were 

 there not an hour ago, fighting ; they may be there now. Quien 

 sabe, senores?" 



" It is but a minute's ride — shall we go ? " said Don Miguel to 

 the colonel. The latter called to me ; next moment we were off, 

 leaving the party to follow as they severally made ready. 



I remember yet the excitement of that ride, the eagerness and 

 expectancy with which we neared the knot of trees, our dash through, 

 pistol in hand. In quiet hours I hear the shout with which the 

 colonel brought us together. In an opening scarce twenty yards 

 square lay a dying bull. He was of prodigious girth, and covered 

 head and shoulders with a coat of sunburnt hair to shame a lion. 

 Long, tangled locks, matted with mud and burs, swathed his forelegs 

 down to the hoofs. The ponderous head of the brute rested help- 

 lessly upon the rotting trunk of a palm-tree ; the tongue hung from 

 his bloody lips ; his eyes were dim, and his breath came and went in 

 mighty gasps. The death-wound was in his flank, a horrible sick- 

 ening rent. The earth all about bore witness to the fury of the duel. 

 Long time he confronted his foe, and held him with locked horns ; at 

 last, he slipped his guard — that broad forehead with its crown of 

 Jove-like curls — and was lost. Who could doubt that the victor 

 was worth pursuit? 



