Hitherto we had had mere weather; this was a pronounced case of
meteorology: until then I had taken no special satisfaction in the word.
It had been raining frequently during the month, in quite unusual
volume; the arroyos were pretty brooks, the sides of the divides wept,
and there were wide, soft places on the prairies; the flocks went very
lame from the excessive dampness, and riding was a splashing and
spattering business; but the oldest inhabitant dropped no hint
suggestive of the veritable meteorological _coup_ which was quietly
preparing.

We retired one night in our usual unsuspecting frame of mind, and awoke
next morning to hear above the dull reverberation of the rain the
booming of a torrent. The arroyo near the ranch was no longer an arroyo,
but a stream fifty feet wide; and on the hither side of the pecan-trees
of the creek could be seen a silver line: the water had already
surpassed the banks. Before noon there was neither creek nor arroyo, but
a river a mile wide rushing down the valley: we knew where the trees had
been, by the swirling waves. A flood is like those serpents which
fascinate before they strike. The monotonous rain failing _ohne Hast,
ohne Rast_, the dead immutable murk of the sky, the rush of gray wave
after wave, induced a state of dull lethargic wonder: the feet--the foot
more, would it accomplish that? Already the floor of the ranch-house was
under water. But there was soon a sufficient dashing about of riders in
long yellow oil-skin coats, and all was done that the situation seemed
to demand or admit of. The culminating moment of the day came toward two
in the afternoon, when we stood on the roof of the ranch-house, with our
eyes glued to a sulphur-colored patch a mile up the valley. It was a
flock of sheep congregated on an unsubmerged knoll in the middle of the
torrent. There was a sudden movement in the mass, the sulphur patch
vanished, and there was borne to us distinctly a long, plaintive cry: