Don Pépé has built himself a hut on the Chotal river; he shoots whatever comes within the range of his muzzle, for the support of himself and his companions. The poor old fellow is reduced to a deplorable state by marsh fever; he volunteers some valuable hints, which I repay with a glass of wine and a few cigars.
THE USUMACINTA AT PASO YALCHILAN.
Some hours more and we reach the broad level, and set up our tents on the Chotal, a tributary of the Usumacinta. The forest round is teeming with life; parrots and aras fill the air with their shrill cries, yellow-crested hoccos[159] move silently among the higher branches, while howling monkeys peer inquisitively at us, and herds of wild boars rush madly past us. We are in the country of the Lacandones; here and there traces of cultivation are still visible, and huts which have been abandoned on the approach of timber merchants, plainly show that they were inhabited not long ago. We raise our “camp,” en route for the Yalchilan Pass, and arrive in the evening on the right bank of the Usumacinta.
DON PÉPÉ MORA.
ENCAMPMENT AT PASO YALCHILAN.