that there is but a limited supply of this
precious food; not enough either on the trees or the ground to sustain
us for two days.

"By gosh!" exclaims one, "we'll have to draw for our critters."

"Well, and if we have to--time enough yet a bit, I guess. We'll bite
our claws a while first."

The water is distributed in a small cup. There is still a little left
in the xuages; but our poor horses suffer.

"Let us look to them," says Seguin; and, drawing his knife, he commences
skinning one of the cacti. We follow his example.

We carefully pare off the volutes and spikelets. A cool, gummy liquid
exudes from the opened vessels. We break the short stems, and lifting
the green, globe-like masses, carry them to the thicket, and place them
before our animals. These seize the succulent plants greedily, crunch
them between their teeth, and swallow both sap and fibres. It is food
and drink to them. Thank Heaven! we may yet save them!

This act is repeated several times, until they have had enough.

We keep two videttes constantly on the look-out--one upon the hill, the
other commanding the mouth of the defile. The rest of us go through the
ravine, along the sides of the ridge, in search of the cones of the
pinon.

Thus our first day is spent.

The Indian hunters keep coming into their camp until a late hour,
bringing with them their burdens of buffalo flesh. Fires blaze over the
ground, and the savages sit around them, cooking and eating, nearly all
the night.

On the following day they do not rouse themselves until a late hour. It
is a day of lassitude and idleness; for the meat is hanging over the
strings, and they can only wait upon it. They lounge around the camp,
mending their bridles and lassos, or looking to their weapons; they lead
their horses to the water, and then picket them on fresh ground; they
cut large pieces of meat, and broil them over the fires. Hundreds of
them are at all times engaged in this last occupation. They seem to eat
continually.

Their dogs are busy, too, growling over the knife-stripped bones. They
are not likely to leave their feast; they will not stray up the ravine
while it lasts. In this thought we find consolation.

The sun is hot all the second day, and scorches us in the dry defile.
It adds to our thirst; but we do not regret, this so much, knowing it
will hasten the departure of the savages. Towards evening, the tasajo
begins to look brown and shrivelled. An