The morning breaks at last, and we crawl forward as usual, to watch the movements of the camp. The savages sleep late, as on yesterday; but they arouse themselves at length, and after watering their animals, commence cooking. We see the crimson streaks and the juicy ribs smoking over the fires, and the savoury odours are wafted to us on the breeze. Our appetites are whetted to a painful keenness. We can endure no longer. A horse must die!
Whose? Mountain law will soon decide.
Eleven white pebbles and a black one are thrown into the water-bucket, and one by one we are blinded and led forward.
I tremble as I place my hand in the vessel. It is like throwing the die for my own life.
“Thank Heaven! my Moro is safe!”
One of the Mexicans has drawn the black.
“Thar’s luck in that!” exclaims a hunter. “Good fat mustang better than poor bull any day!”
The devoted horse is in fact a well-conditioned animal; and placing our videttes again, we proceed to the thicket to slaughter him.
We set about it with great caution. We tie him to a tree, and hopple his fore and hind feet, lest he may struggle. We propose bleeding him to death.
The cibolero has unsheathed his long knife, while a man stands by, holding the bucket to catch the precious fluid: the blood. Some have cups in their hands, ready to drink it as it flows!