A rude sign-post at the foot of a rugged mountain path apprised me where the “miners' trail” led off to Guajuaqualla; so, dismounting from my “mustang,” now wearied and blown by a pretty sharp pace for above seven miles, I turned the animal loose and set off on foot. I know of no descent so great in life as from the “saddle” to the “sole!” from the inspiriting pleasure of being carried along at will, to the plodding slowness of mere pedestrianism. In the one case you “shoot your sorrows flying;” in the other, they jog alongside of you all the way, halting with you when you lie down at noon, and taking share of the spring from which your parched lips are refreshed. Like an underbred acquaintance, they will not be denied; they are always “going your way;” and in their cruel civility they insist on bearing you company.
At a little cabaret of the very humblest order, I obtained some breakfast and made purchase of a stock of bread and a gourd of wine, as I learned that nothing was to be had before I reached “Sanchez,” the hut of an old miner, which was reckoned halfway to Guajuaqualla. This done, again I set forth on my journey.
The scenery was wild, without being grand. There was bareness and desolation, but no sublimity. It was evidently a tract of such inferior fertility that few in a land so rich as this would select it for a resting-place; and, accordingly, I came upon no signs of habitation other than the shealings the shepherds raise at certain seasons when migrating with their flocks among the mountains.
It was exactly the character of landscape likely to increase and thicken the gloom of sad thoughts; and, indeed, mine wanted little assistance. This last exploit left a weight like lead upon my heart. All my sophistry about self-defence and wounded honor, necessity, and the like could not cover the fact that I had taken away a man's life in a foolish brawl, from the very outset of which the whole fault lay on my side.
“So much,” said I, “for trying to be a 'gentleman'. Every step in this disastrous pursuit would seem to have a penalty attached to it; and, after all, I am just as far from the goal as when I set out.”
That day seemed a year in length; and were I to attempt to chronicle it, the reader would confess himself convinced before I had half finished; so that, for both our sakes, I 'll not “file my bill of particulars,” as my respected father would have said, but at once come to the hour when the sun approached the horizon, and yet not anything like a human dwelling came in sight; and I still plodded along, sad and weary, and anxious for rest. If the events which I am about to record have little in them of extraordinary interest, they at least were the turning-points in my humble destiny, and therefore, kind reader, with your permission, we 'll give them a chapter to themselves.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE DISCOVERY
I had walked now for nearly twelve hours without discovering any appearance of Sanchez's cabin, in which I had hoped to pass the night. My prairie experience assured me that I had not lost the “trail,” and yet if any light were burning for miles around, the elevated spot on which I stood should make it visible. Although much fatigued, there was nothing for it but to proceed, and at length I found myself in a narrow valley which Seth had heard described as the situation in which the miner's hut stood. It was dark and gloomy; but the hope that I was nearing the spot cheered me, and I walked on, footsore and tired as I was. Once or twice I thought I heard the bark of a dog. I stopped to listen; I shouted aloud, I whistled, but to no end. After an interval, however, the sounds were repeated, and now I could detect,—not the bark,—but the low, plaintive wail of an animal seemingly in pain. As it not unfrequently happens that the sheep-dogs are attacked by wolves, it immediately occurred to me such might be the present case; so I looked to the caps of my revolver, and hastened on in the direction of the cries.