The faggots set on fire were the stalks of the creosote plant—the ideodondo of the Mexican table lands, well known for its power to cause asphyxia. Walt Wilder recognised it at the first whiff.
“It’s the stink-weed!” he exclaimed. “That darned stink-weed o’ New Mexico! It’ll kill us if we can’t keep it out. Off wi’ your coat, Frank; it are bigger than my hunting skirt. Let’s spread it across the hole, an’ see if that’ll do.”
His companion obeyed with alacrity, stripping off his coat as quickly as the circumscribed space would permit. Fortunately, it was a garment of the sack specialty, without any split in the tail, and when extended offered a good breadth of surface.
It proved sufficient for the purpose, and, before the little grotto had become so filled with smoke as to be absolutely untenable, its entrance was closed by a curtain of broadcloth, held so hermetically over the aperture that even the fumes of Assafoetida could not possibly have found their way inside.
Chapter Thirteen.
Buried Alive.
For nearly half an hour they kept the coat spread, holding it close around the edges of the aperture with their heads, hands, knees, and elbows. Withal some of the bitter smoke found ingress, torturing their eyes, and half stifling them.
They bore it with philosophic fortitude and in profound silence, using their utmost efforts to refrain from sneezing or coughing.