He looked around for an explanation.
“Only the coyotés!” was his reflection, on seeing a score of these animals flitting to and fro, skulking along both banks of the stream, and “squatting” upon the grass.
Hitherto he had felt no fear—only contempt—for these cowardly creatures.
But his sentiments underwent a change, on his noticing their looks and attitudes. The former were fierce; the latter earnest and threatening. Clearly did the coyotés mean mischief.
He now remembered having heard, that these animals—ordinarily innocuous, from sheer cowardice—will attack man when disabled beyond the capability of defending himself. Especially will they do so when stimulated by the smell of blood.
His had flowed freely, and from many veins—punctured by the spines of the cactus. His garments were saturated with it, still but half dry.
On the sultry atmosphere it was sending forth its peculiar odour. The coyotés could not help scenting it.
Was it this that was stirring them to such excited action—apparently making them mad?
Whether or not, he no longer doubted that it was their intention to attack him.
He had no weapon but a bowie knife, which fortunately had kept its place in his belt. His rifle and pistols, attached to the saddle, had been carried off by his horse.