Chapter Thirty Three.
A Drink à la Cheval.
The guerilleros now halted and dismounted. We were left in our saddles. Our mules were picketed upon long lazos, and commenced browsing. They carried us under the thorny branches of the wild locust. The maguey, with its bill-shaped claws, had torn our uniform overalls to shreds. Our limbs were lacerated, and the cactus had lodged its poisoned prickles in our knees. But these were nothing to the pain of being compelled to keep our saddles, or rather saddle-trees—for we were upon the naked wood. Our hips ached intensely, and our limbs smarted under the chafing thong.
There was a crackling of fires around us. Our captors were cooking their breakfasts, and chattering gaily over their chocolate. Neither food nor drink was offered to us, although we were both thirsty and hungry. We were kept in this place for about an hour.
“They have joined another party here,” said Raoul, “with pack-mules.”
“How know you?” I inquired.
“I can tell by the shouts of the arrieros. Listen!—they are making ready to start.”
There was a mingling of voices—exclamations addressed to their animals by the arrieros, such as: