The skin of the former was dull yellow in colour, with a thin beard over the cheeks and around the lips. The lips were negro-like, thick, and purplish, and behind them appeared a double row of large wolfish teeth. The eyes were sunken—their whites mottled with yellowish flakes. Heavy dark brows shadowed them, standing far apart, separated by the broad flatfish nose, the nostrils of which stood so widely open as to cause a protuberance on each side. Large ears were hidden under a thick frizzled shock that partook of the character both of hair and wool. Over this was bound, turban fashion, an old check Madras kerchief that had not come in contact with soap for many a day; and from under its folds the woolly hair straggled down over the forehead so as to add to the wild and fierce expression of the face. It was a countenance that proclaimed ferocity, reckless daring, cunning, and an utter absence of all humane sentiment.
The dress of the man had little in it differing from others who lead the life of a prairie-hunter. It was a mixture of leather and blanket. The head-dress only was peculiar. That was an old souvenir of the Southern States and their negro life.
The zambo had a face as ferocious in its expression as that of his confrère. It differed in colour. It was a coppery black—combining the hues of both races from whom he derived his origin. He had the thick lips and retreating forehead of the negro, but the Indian showed itself in his hair, which scarcely waved, but hung in long snaky tresses about his neck and shoulders. He was altogether less distinguished-looking than his comrade the mulatto. His dress partook of the character of his tribe—wide trousers of coarse cotton stuff, with a sleeveless shirt of the same material,—a waist scarf, and coarse serapé. Half the upper part of his body was nude, and his thick copper-coloured arms were quite bare.
Roblado arrived just in time to witness the finale of an incident that would serve to illustrate the character of the zambo.
He was half sitting, half-lying in his hammock, in the enjoyment of a husk cigar, and occasionally striking at the flies with his raw-hide whip. He called out to one of the women—his wife for the time—
“Niña! I want to eat something—is the guisado ready?”
“Not yet,” answered a voice from the hut.
“Bring me a tortilla then, with chilé Colorado.”
“Querido—you know there is no chilé Colorado in the house,” was the reply.
“Niña! come here! I want you.”