375“Great Christmas!” cried Johnny, who was in the advance. “Talk about your mud!”
We did talk about it. It was the deepest, most tenacious, slipperiest, most adhesive mud any fiend ever imagined. We slid and floundered as though we had on skates; we accumulated balls of it underfoot; and we sank disconcertingly half-leg deep at every third step. Our first intention had been to go up to town; but we soon revised that, and went down to the Moreña cabin instead, with the idea of looking after the two horses. The beasts, very shaggy underneath and plastered above, stood humped up nose to tail. We looked into the cabin. The roof had leaked like a sieve; and the interior was dripping in a thousand places.
“Reckon even the tent was better after all,” acknowledged Yank, looking with disfavour on the muddy floor.
We returned to the tent and made shift to get a fire going. After cooking some hot food, we felt better, and set about drying our blankets. In the cañon we could hear the river roaring away hollowly.
“I’ll bet she’s on the rampage!” said Old.
“I’ll bet she’s got my cradle and all of my tools!” I cried, struck with a sudden thought.
And then, about as we commenced to feel cheerful and contented again, the scattered black clouds began to close ranks. One by one the patches of blue sky narrowed and disappeared.
“Why!” cried Cal in astonishment, “I believe it’s getting ready to rain again!”
376“Shucks!” replied Old, “It can’t. There ain’t no more rain.”
Nevertheless there was, and plenty of it. We spent that second night shifting as little as possible so as not to touch a new cold place in our sodden blankets, while the waters roared down in almost a solid sheet.