intent to surprise and destroy them, fell themselves into a snare, in
which they were routed, and many perished.

We made no scruples of deserting our late masters, and, spurring our
gallant steeds, we soon found that our unconscious liberators were a
party of officers bound from Monterey to Santa Fé, escorted by
two-and-twenty Apaches and some twelve or fifteen families of Ciboleros.
I knew the officers, and was very glad to have intelligence from
California. Isabella was as bright as ever, but not quite so
light-hearted. Padre Marini, the missionary, had embarked for Peru, and
the whole city of Monterey was still laughing, dancing, singing, and
love-making, just as I had left them.

The officers easily persuaded me to accompany them to Santa Fé, from
whence I could readily return to Monterey with the next caravan.

A word concerning the Ciboleros may not be uninteresting. Every year,
large parties of Mexicans, some with mules, others with ox-carts, drive
out into these prairies to procure for their families a season's supply
of buffalo beef. They hunt chiefly on horseback, with bow and arrow, or
lance, and sometimes the fusil, whereby they soon load their carts and
mules. They find no difficulty in curing their meat even in midsummer,
by slicing it thin, and spreading or suspending it in the sun; or, if in
haste, it is slightly barbecued. During the curing operation, they often
follow the Indian practice of beating the slices of meat with their
feet, which they say contributes to its preservation.

Here the extraordinary purity of the atmosphere of these regions is
remarkably exemplified. A line is stretched from corner to corner along
the side of the waggon body, and strung with slices of beef, which