Our eyes followed the direction indicated by the speaker. In front of the ravine in which we were, extended the line of the Indian camp, not a hundred yards distant from the rocks that lay around its entrance. There was an Indian sentinel still nearer; but it would be impossible to pass out, even were he asleep, without encountering the dogs that prowled in numbers around the camp.
Behind us, the mountain rose vertically like a wall. It was plainly impassable. We were fairly “in the trap.”
“Carrai!” exclaimed one of the men, “we will die of hunger and thirst if they stay to hunt!”
“We may die sooner,” rejoined another, “if they take a notion in their heads to wander up the gully.”
This was not improbable, though it was but little likely. The ravine was a sort of cul de sac, that entered the mountain in a slanting direction, and ended at the bottom of the cliff. There was no object to attract our enemies into it, unless indeed they might come up in search of pinon nuts. Some of their dogs, too, might wander up, hunting for food, or attracted by the scent of our horses. These were probabilities, and we trembled as each of them was suggested.
“If they do not find us,” said Seguin, encouragingly, “we may live for a day or two on the pinons. When these fail us, one of our horses must be killed. How much water have we?”
“Thank our luck, captain, the gourds are nearly full.”
“But our poor animals must suffer.”
“There is no danger of thirst,” said El Sol, looking downward, “while these last;” and he struck with his foot a large round mass that grew among the rocks. It was the spheroidal cactus. “See!” continued he, “there are hundreds of them!”
All present knew the meaning of this, and regarded the cacti with a murmur of satisfaction.