e misunderstood.

A woman--a huntress; the character clearly proclaimed by a brace of
hounds--large dogs of the mastiff bloodhound breed--following at the
heels of the horse. And a huntress who has been successful in the
chase--as proved by two prong-horn antelopes, with shanks tied together,
lying like saddle-bags across the croup.

The mustang mare needs no spur beyond the sound of that sweet well-known
voice. At the word _adelante_ (forward) she pricks up her ears, gives a
wave of her snow-white tail, and breaks into a gentle canter, the hounds
loping after in long-stretching trot.

For about ten minutes is this pace continued; when a bird flying athwart
the course, so close that its wings almost brush Lolita's muzzle, causes
her rider to lean back in the saddle and check her suddenly up.

The bird is a black vulture--a zopilote. It is not slowly soaring in
the usual way, but shooting in a direct line, and swiftly as an arrow
sent from the bow.

This it is that brings the huntress to a halt; and for a time she
remained motionless, her eye following the vulture in its flight.

It is seen to join a flock of its fellows, so far off as to look like
specks. The young girl can perceive that they are not flying in any
particular direction, but swooping in circles, as if over some quarry
that lies below. Whatever it is, they do not appear to have yet touched
it. All keep aloft, none of them alighting on the ground, though at
times stooping down, and skimming close to the tops of the sage-bushes
with which the plain is thickly beset.

These last prevent the huntress from seeing what lies upon the ground;
though she knows there must be something to have attracted the concourse
of zopilotes. Evidently she has enough knowledge of the desert to
understand its signs, and this is one of a significant character. It
not only challenges curiosity, but calls for investigation.

"Something gone down yonder, and not yet dead?" she mutters, in
interrogative soliloquy. "I wonder what it can be! I never look on
those filthy birds without fear. _Santissima_! how they made me shudder
that time when they flapped their black wings in my own face! I pity
any poor creature threatened by them--even where it but a coyote. It
may be that, or an antelope. Nothing else likely to become their prey
on this bare plain. Come, Lolita! let us go on and see what they're
after. It will take us a little out of our way, and give you some