Chapter Twenty Eight.
Dacoma.
We all now hurried forward to the spring, and, dismounting, turned our horses’ heads to the water, leaving them to drink at will. We had no fear of their running away.
Our own thirst required slaking as much as theirs; and, crowding into the branch, we poured the cold water down our throats in cupfuls. We felt as though we should never be surfeited; but another appetite, equally strong, lured us away from the spring; and we ran over the camp-ground in search of the means to gratify it. We scattered the coyotes and white wolves with our shouts, and drove them with missiles from the ground.
We were about stooping to pick up the dust-covered morsels, when a strange exclamation from one of the hunters caused us to look hastily round.
“Malaray, camarados; mira el arco!”
The Mexican who uttered these words stood pointing to an object that lay upon the ground at his feet. We ran up to ascertain what it was.
“Caspita!” again ejaculated the man. “It is a white bow!”