Excerpt from The Bee Hunters: A Tale of Adventure
This region, in which the sound of the squatter's axe has not jet roused the slumbering echoes, is called the Far West.
Here the Indians still reign as masters tracing paths on rapid mustangs, untamed as their riders, through the vast solitudes, whose mysteries are known only to themselves; hunting the bison and wild horse, waging war with each other, or pursuing with deadly enmity, the white hunters and trappers daring enough to venture into this last formidable refuge of the red-skins.
On the 27th July, 1868, about three hours before sunset, a cavalier, mounted on a magnificent mustang, was carelessly following the banks of the Rio Vermejo, a tributary of the Rio Grande del Norte, into which it falls after course of from seventy to eighty leagues across the desert.
This cavalier, clad in the leather dress worn by Mexican hunters, was, as far a one could judge, a man not more than thirty years of age, of tall and well-knit frame, and graceful in manner and action. His face was proud and determined; and his hardy features, stamped with an expression of frankness and good-nature, inspired, at first sight, respect and sympathy.
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