At length, about midday, after going nearly four leagues in this fashion—a most wearying task—the hunters found themselves on a perfectly naked rock. At this spot it would have been madness to look for footprints, as the granite would not take them. Don Miguel and his son fell to the ground, more through despondency than fatigue.
Curumilla began collecting the scattered leaves to light the breakfast fire, while Valentine, leaning on his rifle, with his forehead furrowed by deep wrinkles, looked scrutinisingly round. At the spot where the hunters had established their temporary bivouac, no vegetation grew on the barren rocks; while an immense larch tree over-shadowed it with its well-covered branches.
The hunter incessantly turned his intelligent eye from earth to sky, as if he had a foreboding that at this spot he must find the trail he had so long been seeking. All at once he uttered a sonorous "hum!" At this sound, a signal agreed on between the Indian and him, Curumilla left off collecting the leaves, raised his head, and looked at him. Valentine walked towards him with a hasty step; the two Mexicans eagerly rose and joined him.
"Have you discovered anything?" Don Miguel asked, curiously.
"No," Valentine replied, "but in all probability I soon shall."
"Here?"
"Yes, at this very spot," he said, with a knowing smile; "believe me, you shall soon see."
While saying this, the hunter stooped, picked up a handful of leaves, and began examining them attentively, one by one.
"What can those leaves teach you?" Don Miguel asked with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Everything," Valentine firmly replied, as he continued his examination.