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A
chorus
of
whipcracks
is
succeeded
by
the
trampling
of
fourscore
mules
,
mingled
with
the
clanking
of
wheels
against
their
hubs
.
The
waggon-train
is
once
more
in
motion
.
The
mules
step
out
with
greater
rapidity
.
The
sable
surface
,
strange
to
their
eyes
,
excites
them
to
brisker
action
--
causing
them
to
raise
the
hoof
,
as
soon
as
it
touches
the
turf
.
The
younger
animals
show
fear
--
snorting
,
as
they
advance
.
In
time
their
apprehensions
become
allayed
;
and
,
taking
the
cue
from
their
older
associates
,
they
move
on
steadily
as
before
.
A
mile
or
more
is
made
,
apparently
in
a
direct
line
from
the
point
of
starting
.
Then
there
is
a
halt
.
The
self-appointed
guide
has
ordered
it
.
He
has
reined
up
his
horse
;
and
is
sitting
in
the
saddle
with
less
show
of
confidence
.
He
appears
to
be
puzzled
about
the
direction
.
The
landscape
--
if
such
it
may
be
called
--
has
assumed
a
change
;
though
not
for
the
better
.
It
is
still
sable
as
ever
,
to
the
verge
of
the
horizon
.
But
the
surface
is
no
longer
a
plain
:
it
rolls
.
There
are
ridges
--
gentle
undulations
--
with
valleys
between
.
They
are
not
entirely
treeless
--
though
nothing
that
may
be
termed
a
tree
is
in
sight
.
There
have
been
such
,
before
the
fire
--
algarobias
,
mezquites
,
and
others
of
the
acacia
family
--
standing
solitary
,
or
in
copses
.
Their
light
pinnate
foliage
has
disappeared
like
flax
before
the
flame
.
Their
existence
is
only
evidenced
by
charred
trunks
,
and
blackened
boughs
.
"
You
've
lost
the
way
,
nephew
?
"
said
the
planter
,
riding
rapidly
up
.
"
No
uncle
--
not
yet
.
I
've
only
stopped
to
have
a
look
.
It
must
lie
in
this
direction
--
down
that
valley
.
Let
them
drive
on
.
We
're
going
all
right
--
I
'll
answer
for
it
.
"
Once
more
in
motion
--
adown
the
slope
--
then
along
the
valley
--
then
up
the
acclivity
of
another
ridge
--
and
then
there
is
a
second
stoppage
upon
its
crest
.
"
You
've
lost
the
way
,
Cash
?
"
said
the
planter
,
coming
up
and
repeating
his
former
observation
.
