After a journey of ten or twelve miles, we find ourselves opposite the
Indian town. We are not over a mile from it. We can see the fires
burning on the plain, and hear the voices of those who move around them.

At this point the band is divided. A small party remains making its
cache in a defile among the rocks. These guard the captive chief and
the antajo of mules. The rest move forward, guided by Rube, who carries
them round the edge of the forest, here and there dropping a picket of
several men as he proceeds.

These parties conceal themselves at their respective stations, remain
silent, and wait for the signal from the bugle, which is to be given at
the hour of daybreak.

The night passes slowly and silently. The fires one by one go out,
until the plain is wrapt in the gloom of a moonless midnight. Dark
clouds travel over the sky, portending rain: a rare phenomenon in these
regions. The swan utters its wild note, the gruya whoops over the
stream, and the wolf howls upon the skirts of the sleeping village. The
voice of the bull-bat wails through the air. You hear the "flap, flap"
of his long wings as he dashes down among the cocuyos. You hear the
hoof-stroke on the hard plain, the "crop" of the browsing steed, and the
tinkling of the bit-ring, for the horses eat bridled.

At intervals, a drowsy hunter mutters through his sleep, battling in
dreams with some terrible foe. Thus goes the night. These are its
voices.

They cease as daybreak approaches. The wolf howls no longer; the swan
and the blue crane are silent; the night-hawk has filled his ravenous
maw, and perches on the mountain pine; the fire-flies disappear, chased
by the colder hours; and the horses, having eaten what grew within their
reach, stand in lounging attitudes, asleep.

A grey light begins to steal into the valley. It flickers along the
white cliffs of the quartz mountain. It brings with it a raw, cold air
that awakens the hunters.

One by one they arouse themselves. They shiver as they stand up, and
carry their blankets wrapped about their shoulders. They feel weary,
and look pale and haggard. The grey dawn lends a ghastly hue to their
dusty beards and unwashed faces.

After a short while they coil up their trail-ropes and fasten them to
the rings. They look to their flints and priming, and tighten the
buckles of their belts. They draw forth from their haversacks pieces of
dry tasajo, eating it raw. They stand by their