Taking off his cloak, and spreading it out upon the grass, with his knife he cut a row of holes along each edge.
Then unwinding from his waist the sash of china crape, he tore it up the middle, so as to make two strips, each several yards long.
The cloak was now extended between the branches, and fast tied by the strips of crape—thus forming a sort of hammock capable of containing the body of a man laid out at full length.
The maker of it knew that the coyotés are not tree climbers; and, reclining on his suspended couch, he could observe with indifference their efforts to assail him.
He took all this trouble, feeling certain they would return. If he had any doubt, it was soon set at rest, by seeing them, one after the other, come skulking out of the chapparal, lopping a pace or two, at intervals, pausing to reconnoitre, and then advancing towards the scene of their late conflict.
Emboldened by the absence of the enemy most dreaded by them, the pack was soon reassembled, once more exhibiting the truculent ferocity for which these cowardly creatures are celebrated.
It was first displayed in a very unnatural manner—by the devouring of their own dead—which was done in less time than it would have taken the spectator in the tree to have counted a score.
To him their attention was next directed. In swinging his hammock, he had taken no pains to conceal it. He had suspended it high enough to be out of their reach; and that he deemed sufficient for his purpose.
The cloak of dark cloth was conspicuous, as well as the figure outlined within it. The coyotés clustered underneath—their appetites whetted by the taste of blood. It was a sight to see them lick their red lips after their unnatural repast—a fearful sight!
He who saw it scarce regarded them—not even when they were springing up to lay hold of his limbs, or at times attempting to ascend by the trunk of the tree! He supposed there was no danger.