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A Buffalo Hunt in Northern Mexico. 



the high rank of the deceased. A pair of moccasins, taken from the 

 saddle, fell to me ; they were unworn, and soft as a castor glove. I 

 have them yet, and keep them because they were beaded by the 

 warrior's love, the daughter of an arrow-maker who lives in a painted 

 tepee off over the Sierras, by the loud-singing, but lonely, Gila. A 

 visitor now and then comes and casts a doubt upon the tale of the 

 moccasins ; but he always leaves me in disfavor. 



We agreed to attribute the end of the savage to ugliness, compli- 

 cated with original sin. When the shepherds were told about him, 

 they turned pale and crossed themselves. They knew why he was 

 in wait where death found him, mercifully for them. 



It remains to say the discovery finished the hunt. 



The Indian's pony, seven superb buffalo hides, and any amount 

 of meat, were our trophies. The bivouac by the estanque that night 

 was savory with the smell of roasting joints, and next day, when we 

 bade adieu to Don Miguel and his friends at the door of the house 

 of Zuloaga, all the patios were beautiful with festoonery, which, at the 

 end of a week, was taken down, weighed, and divided. No one ever 

 tasted better came seca. 



