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I was thirsty, and would drink. O God! my "xuages" are broken! The pack-mule has carried off the water-skin. The crushed calabash still hung upon its thong; but the last drops it had contained were trickling down the flanks of my horse. I knew that I might be fifty miles from water! You cannot understand the fearfulness of this situation.
We plunge through the shallow ford, coming out on the eastern bank. We fill our "xuages" with care, and give our animals as much as they will drink. After a short halt to refresh ourselves, we ride onward. We have not travelled far before we recognise the appropriate name of this terrible journey. Scattered along the path we see the bones of many animals. There are human bones too!
It was no labour to fill her xuages with fresh water at every spring or runlet, to spread the blanket softly over her saddle, to weave her a quitasol out of the broad leaves of the palmilla, to assist her in mounting and dismounting. No; that was not labour to me. We were happy as we journeyed.
In the morning it became necessary to descend for water. For this purpose we had provided ourselves with a mule-bucket and extra xuages. We visited the spring, and filled our vessels, taking care to leave no traces of out footsteps in the mud. We kept constant watch during the first day, but no Indians appeared.
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.
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