Scarce has the last hoof-stroke of the Texan horses died away down the valley, when the buzzards forsake their perch upon the bluff, and swoop down to the creek bottom.
Simultaneously the wolves—grand grey and coyote—come sneaking out from the thicket’s edge; at first cautiously, soon with bolder front, approaching the abandoned bodies.
To the bark of the coyote, the bay of the bigger wolf, and the buzzard’s hoarse croak, a caracara adds its shrill note; the fiend-like chorus further strengthened by the scream of the white-headed eagle—for all the world like the filing of a frame saw, and not unlike the wild, unmeaning laughter of a madman.
Both the predatory birds and the ravening beasts, with instincts in accord, gather around the quarry killed for them. There is a grand feast—a banquet for all; and they have no need to quarrel over it. But they do—the birds having to stand back till the beasts have eaten their fill.
The puma, or panther, takes precedence—the so-called lion of America. A sorry brute to bear the name belonging to the king of quadrupeds. Still, on the Llano Estacado, lord of all, save when confronted by the grizzly bear—then he becomes a cat.
As no grizzly has yet come upon the ground, and only two panthers, the wolves have it almost their own way, and only the vultures and eagles have to hold back. But for the birds there is a side dish on which they may whet their appetites, beyond reach of the beasts. To their share fall the two suspended from the trees; and, driven off from the others, they attack these with beak and talon, flapping around, settling upon the branches above, on the shoulders of the corpses, thick as honey-bees upon a branch, pecking out eyes, tearing at flesh, mutilating man—God’s image—in every conceivable mode.
No; there is one left, peculiar to man himself. Strange, at this crisis, he should appear to give exhibition of it. By pure chance—a sheer contingency—though not less deserving record.
The beasts and birds while engaged in devouring the dead bodies are interrupted and scared away from their filthy repast, retreating suddenly from the ground at sight of their masters—men, who unexpectedly appear upon it.
These are not the Rangers returning, but a band of Jicarilla Apaches—young braves out on a roving excursion. They have come down the creek, making for the Pecos, and so chanced to stray into the deserted camp.
Surprised at the spectacle there presented to their eyes, they are not the less delighted. More than a dozen dead men, with scalps untaken! They can see there has been a fight, but do not stay to think who have been the victors. Their thoughts are turned towards the vanquished, their eyes resting on heads that still carry their covering of hair. In a trice their blades are bare, and it is cut off—the skin along with it—to the skull of the last lancer!