With the Apache Indians, as already said, it is a staple food, even giving their tribal name to one branch of this numerous nation—the Mezcaleros. But all eat of it alike, and the Coyoteros, en bivouac, show, by their knowledge of how to prepare it, that baked mezcal is noways new to them.
At the word “ready!” they gather around the hot steaming mass; and, regardless of scorched lips or tongues, set upon it with knife and tooth.
Soon the skin is cleaned out, every scrap of its contents eaten. They could eat the hide too, and would, were there a pinch. But there is none such now, and it is left for their namesakes, the coyotes.
A smoke follows the Homeric repast, for all American Indians are addicted to the use of the nicotian weed. They were so before the caravels of Columbus spread sail on the Haytian seas.
Every Coyotero in camp has his pipe and pouch of tobacco, be it genuine or adulterated; this depending on how their luck has been running, or how recent their latest raid upon some settlement of the palefaces.
Pipes smoked out and returned to their places of deposit, all are afoot again. Nothing more now but to draw picket-pins, coil up trail-ropes, mount, and move off; for their horse caparison, scant and easily adjusted, is already on.
The chief gives the order “to horse,” not in words, but by example—springing upon the back of his own. Then they ride off, as before, in formation “by twos,” each file falling into rank as the line lengthens out upon the plain.
Scarce is the last file clear of the abandoned camp-ground ere this becomes occupied by animated beings of another kind—wolves, whose howling has been heard throughout all the night. Having scented the slaughtered horse, these now rush simultaneously towards it, to dispute the banquet of bones.