A MEXICAN CACTUS
When we reached Torres nobody seemed to know anything about peccaries, and as the train stopped there for dinner we had plenty of time to talk it over. It then appeared that wild hogs were to be found all the way from Guaymas to Nogalles, but at this time of the year were very scarce, and seen only in twos or threes, and not in droves. In droves they are pugnacious and will easily bay; but in pairs or very small numbers they are more timid, and not until they are exhausted or overtaken by a swifter pursuer will they show fight. No jabalis could be depended on, and, as I had only a day or two to spare, I determined to move on to Carbo, where the prospects seemed better, and which place we reached in time for supper. This over we busied ourselves about our horses, mules, guides, dogs, etc. The superintendent of the railway at Guaymas had kindly volunteered to telegraph to any point and secure us a Yaqui Indian or two to guide us after the jabalis, and any number of hundreds of dogs to bay them if needed. He said he could guarantee the dogs (and so could anyone else who knew anything about a Mexican village), but he felt dubious about the Yaqui Indians. We secured four broncho horses and two dejected mules for the next day, and then went to sleep. I unrolled my blankets and buffalo robe, laid them down on the railway station platform, and, as the night was cold, had a fine sleep. The morning broke as clear as crystal, and we were up bright and early; but in spite of all our Caucasian hurry we did not get away until shortly after nine o'clock. Our first destination was a ranch two miles to the southeast of the town, owned by Colonel Muñoz. Here we were to get a Yaqui Indian for a guide, and learn the latest quotations as to the peccary market. Shortly after rising in the morning heavy clouds were seen in the northeast, which kept spreading and coming nearer and nearer, with vivid flashes of lightning and loud rumblings of thunder, until just about the time we were halfway to the ranch of Colonel Muñoz it broke over us with the full fury of a Sonora thunderstorm. Its worst feature was its persistency. I never saw a thunderstorm hang on for six or seven hours before in all my life, but this did, much to our personal discomfort, and, worst of all, to the serious detriment of the hunt.
Arriving at the ranch, we found that the Yaqui Indian guide, who, by the way, was a famous peccary hunter, was absent, working on a distant part of the hacienda. Now a hacienda or ranch in Sonora is about as large as a county in most of our States, and it requires efficient messenger service to get over one inside of half a day. We sent for him, however, and as a small boy present volunteered the information that he thought he could guide the party to where a pig might be lurking in the brush, we concluded we would take a short spin with him while waiting for the Yaqui Indian. He based his expectation of a jabali on the rain that had been falling, which sent the wild hogs out, made it easy to trail them, and brought them to bay sooner than if the weather had been dry. There was no horse for the youngster to ride, so he was taken on behind one of the party, and we started out in the pelting rain after "the poor little pigs," as one of the señoras of the hacienda put it. As the poor little pigs have been known to keep a man up a tree for three days, we felt more like wasting ammunition than sympathy on them.
A MEXICAN JABALI.
The rain now came down in torrents, vivid sheets of lightning played in our faces, and the rumbling of the thunder was often so loud we could not hear the shoutings of one another. Now, indeed, we were anxious to get a peccary; for while a little rain helps the hunter in his chase after wild hogs, such a deluge is entirely against him. The dry gullies were running water that would swim a peccary, and this was in their favor in escaping from the dogs, for I should have said we had two dogs with us: one a noble-looking fellow for a hunt, and resembling a Cuban bloodhound, the other a most dejected-looking whelp, a cross between a mongrel and a cur. The whole affair was the sloppiest, wettest failure, and about noon we got back to the hacienda, looking like drowned rats. A good Mexican dinner of chili con carne, red peppers, tabasco, and a few other warm condiments was never better appreciated, and as the Yaqui Indian had put in an appearance we crawled back into our wet saddles, with our clothes sticking to us like postage stamps, and once more sallied out. While we were eating dinner the rain had ceased, and our otherwise dampened hopes had gone up in consequence; but when we were about a mile away it seemed as if the very floodgates of heaven had opened and let all the water down the back of our necks. Gullies we had crossed in coming out almost dry now ran noisy, muddy waters up to the horses' middle, and in some places halfway up their sides. Thus we kept along for an hour or so, wet to the skin, and even under the skin, cholla cactus burs sticking to us until we looked like sheep. About two o'clock we heard loud shouts, and away we tore through cactus spines and shrubby thorns, for it was a sign there were peccaries ahead. Indeed they were ahead, and we chased them for eight miles. The ground was slippery, and the unshod ponies went sliding around over it like cats on ice with clam shells tied to their feet. I weighed 265 pounds, and my small pony not over two or three times as much, and how he kept up with the others, swinging through choyallas and around thick mesquite brush is yet a mystery.
CHASING THE JABALIS IN THE RAIN