The Indians, leading back the captured animals, and recovering their arms, no longer delay entering the camp. Which, to their chagrin, they find not only abandoned, but wellnigh despoiled, as if other plunderers had been there before them! That much has been carried off, and of course of the most valuable kind, is evinced by boxes broken open, bales unroped and the contents extracted, with here and there empty spaces in the wagons, where evidently something had been stored. There is little left for them save the refuse, or effects of a nature to be of no use to them. What care they for mining tools and machinery?
More than ever are they angry and regretful of their ill-judged delay; but vow deadlier vengeance, when the time comes for it.
Still that may not be soon. The very fashion of retreat shows it to have been made with deliberation, and that the white men intend standing a siege, with the hopes and the wherewithal to hold out ever so long. And they, the Indians, knowing the danger of breasting that steep in the face of resolute defenders, have no thought of attempting it. But the goods that have been carried up must remain there, and sooner or later fall into their hands.
So consoling themselves, the new occupants of the camp settle down to the siege, after having secured their animals—both their own and those they have just come into possession of. All are put out to grass, “hoppled” or tethered on trail-ropes. Then the fires, found smouldering, are replenished with fresh fuel, and blaze up brightly as ever, with spits and roasting joints all round them.
This day the Coyoteros dine on beef, instead of their customary diet of mezcal and baked horseflesh. And a plenteous repast they make. Not for a long time have they had such an opportunity of gormandising. In their desert land of Apacheria provisions are scarce—often to starvation-point; and they now feast gluttonously, as if to make up for many a fast.
Nor are they without drinkables, though none brought they along with them. In a corner of one of the wagons is a cask—which on being tapped is found to be filled with chingarita—a fiery spirit distilled from the very plant, chief staple of their food—the mezcal. The Coyoteros know it well, and though they do not themselves distil, they drink it, and are so fond of it as to wonder why the cask is there, and not also carried up the mountain!
Drawn out, and rolled to the middle of the corral, they dance in delight around it, repeatedly quaffing from their calabash cups, with such an accompaniment of noises that the camp, lately occupied by men and women, might seem to have come into the possession of devils.
And so on till night. Then demon-like indeed are the forms seen flitting around its fires, and as much the faces, lit up by the red glare from blazing fagots of mezquite and piñon—both resinous trees. Still more the discordant sounds, a chorus of cries and ejaculations, in mad wild yelling, as of Bedlam broke loose.