The camp-ground was lying as the Indians had left it. The stakes were still standing; the shaggy hides of the buffaloes, and pile of their bones, were strewn upon the plain; hundreds of coyotes were loping back and forward, snarling at one another, or pursuing one of their number which had picked up a nicer morsel than his companions. The fires were still smouldering, and the wolves galloped through the ashes, raising them in yellow clouds.
But there was a sight stranger than all this, a startling sight to me. Five or six forms, almost human, were moving about among the fires, collecting the débris of skins and bones, and quarrelling with the wolves that barked round them in troops. Five or six others, similar forms were seated around a pile of burning wood, silently gnawing at half roasted ribs. Can they be—yes, they are human beings!
I was for a moment awe-struck as I gazed at the shrivelled and dwarfish bodies, the long, ape-like arms, and huge disproportioned heads, from which fell their hair in snaky tangles, black and matted.
But one or two appeared to have any article of dress, and that was a ragged breech-clout. The others were naked as the wild beasts around them, naked from head to foot!
It was a horrid sight to look upon these fiend-like dwarfs squatted around the fires, holding up half-naked bones in their long, wrinkled arms, and tearing off the flesh with their glistening teeth. It was a horrid sight, indeed; and it was some moments before I could recover sufficiently from my amazement to inquire who or what they were. I did so at length.
“Los Yamparicos,” answered the cibolero.
“Who?” I asked again.
“Los Indios Yamparicos, señor.”
“The Diggers, the Diggers,” said a hunter, thinking that would better explain the strange apparitions.
“Yes, they are Digger Indians,” added Seguin. “Come on; we have nothing to fear from them.”