Chapter Fifty One.
A Bird’s-eye View of a Battle.
It was still only an hour by sun as we rode off from the Eagle’s Cave. At some distance I turned in my saddle and looked back. It was a singular sight, those five hanging corpses, and one not easily forgotten. What an appalling picture it must have been to their own comrades, who doubtless watched the spectacle from some distant elevation!
Motionless they hung, in all the picturesque drapery of their strange attire—draggling—dead! The pines bent slightly over, the eagle screamed as he swept past, and high in the blue air a thousand bald vultures wheeled and circled, descending at every curve.
Before we had ridden out of sight the Eagle’s Cliff was black with zopilotes, hundreds clustering upon the pines, and whetting their fetid beaks over their prey, still warm. I could not help being struck with this strange transposition of victims.
We forded the stream below, and travelled for some hours in a westerly course over a half-naked ridge. At mid-day we reached an arroyo—a clear, cool stream that gurgled along under a thick grove of the palma redonda. Here we “nooned”, stretching our bodies along the green-sward.
At sundown we rode into the pueblito (hamlet) of Jacomulco, where we had determined to pass the night. Twing levied on the alcalde for forage for “man and beast”. The horses were picketed in the plaza, while the men bivouacked by their fires—strong mounted pickets having been thrown out on the roads or tracks that led to the village.
By daybreak we were again in our saddles, and, riding across another ridge, we struck the Plan River five miles above the bridge, and commenced riding down the stream. We were still far from the water, which roared and “soughed” in the bottom of a barranca, hundreds of feet below our path.