We had spent some time searching for the bull, so that by the time we had the skin off, the brief African twilight was upon us. We had been hunting very hard for the last week, and were all of us somewhat fagged, but as we started toward camp I soon forgot my weariness in the magic of the night. Before the moon rose we trooped silently along, no one speaking, but all listening to the strange noises of the wilderness. We were following a rambling native trail, which wound along a deep valley beside a stream for some time before it struck out across the hills for camp. There was but little game in the country, still occasionally we would hear a buck that had winded us crashing off, or some animal splashing across the stream. In the more open country the noise of the cicadas, loud and incessant, took me back to the sound of the katydids in summer nights on Long Island. The moon rose large and round, outlining the tall ivory-nut palms. It was as if we were marching in fairyland, and with real regret I at length caught the gleam of the camp-fire through the trees.
[Illustration: Across the bay from Mombasa; the porters ready to shoulder loads and march]
It was after ten o’clock, when we had had something to eat, but Juma, Kasitura, and I gathered to work on the sable, and toiled until we began to nod off to sleep as we skinned.
Next morning I paid my last visit to the old Sultani, rewarding him as I had promised and solemnly agreeing to come back and live with him in his country. The porters were joyful, as is always the case when they are headed for Mombasa. Each thought of the joyous time he would have spending his earnings, and they sang in unison as they swung along the trail--careless, happy children. I, too, was in the best of spirits, for my quest had been successful, and I was not returning empty-handed.
I wished to hunt the mountain-sheep of the Mexican desert, hoping to be able to get a series needed by the National Museum.
At Yuma, on the Colorado River, in the extreme southwestern corner of Arizona, I gathered my outfit. Doctor Carl Lumholtz, the explorer, had recently been travelling and hunting in that part of Mexico. In addition to much valuable help as to outfitting, he told me how to get hold of a Mexican who had been with him and whom he had found trustworthy. The postmaster, Mr. Chandler, and Mr. Verdugo, a prominent business man, had both been more than kind in helping in every possible way. Mr. Charles Utting, clerk of the District Court, sometime Rough Rider, and inveterate prospector, was to start off with me for a short holiday from judicial duties. To him the desert was an open book, and from long experience he understood all the methods and needs of desert travel. Mr. Win Proebstel, ranchman and prospector, was also to start with us. He had shot mountain-sheep all the way from Alaska to Mexico, and was a mine of first-hand information as to their habits and seasons. I had engaged two Mexicans, Cipriano Dominguez and Eustacio Casares.