e bitter cold of the rarefied air, and the
white drill suit we have worn must be supplemented by heavier garments.

The sun sets in gorgeous splendour over the plain and upon the
grey-blue hills, and the short tropic twilight gives place to darkness,
save perchance as the silvery moon of Mexico may cast its peaceful
beams over the desolate landscape. Cigarettes and coffee are finished.
No sound breaks the silence; our men's tales are all told as they
crouch round the campfire. We have sought our couch and turned in,
bidding the _peones_ look to the horses, which, tethered near at hand,
champ their oats or maize contentedly, giving from time to time that
half-human sign with which the equine expresses his contentment and
comfortable weariness. All is still. Sleep falls upon us.... Hark! what
is that? A long mournful howl comes from the plain and winds through
the canyon, and is repeated in chorus. "What is it, Jose?" I call to my
_mozo_ and the other men. "Coyotes, Senor," he replies, "they are
crying to heaven for rain." Of course, I had forgotten for a moment
that they have this habit, and the sound seemed almost unearthly.

To return to the game. We are going a-hunting to-day. The great barren
plains and sterile rocky ribs which intersect them, the stony foothills
and the dry _arroyos_ do not seem to offer much prospect of sport. But
our friend the Mexican _hacendado_, who has ridden up from his
_hacienda_ for the purpose of inviting us, assures us to the contrary.
And, indeed, his words are soon justified. He and his men have led us
far away towards the head of the canyon, and the dry stream-bed is
fringed with _mesquite_ and cactus which might offer shelter to quarry
of some nature. A dozen dark forms start suddenly from the shadow of
the bank upon whose verge we stand. Bang! bang! bang! In the twinkling
of an eye we had dismounted, flung our horses' reins to the attendant
_mozos_, and pointed our Winchesters. Several of the dark forms lie
upon the sand below, inert; the others, already squealing far enough
off, scrambling away. What are they? "_Javelines_, Senor," the _mozos_
make reply. They are peccaries. A good bag indeed and excellent eating,
as their ribs, roasted over a fire at the bottom of the _arroyo_,
attest. Later on we look round for our host, but he is away after a
plump _venado_--deer--which, passing near at hand, proves too strong
for the sportsman's instinct. But the night falls ere he returns.
"Ne