The miserable fate of poor Gonzales seemed to throw a gloom over the entire camp; for it forced all to realize how beset with danger was every step we took, and how easily it might have been one of us, lying cold in death, instead of the poor Mexican.

We retired early, after taking every precaution possible to guard against surprise, and I soon fell asleep, but was aroused a few hours later, by terrific screams and howls from Patsey, who was capering around the camp in the most ridiculous manner, executing as many singular and grotesque gyrations as an Apache in celebrating the scalp-dance.  The entire camp was roused:  even the guards rushed in from their posts to ascertain the cause of the disturbance.

[Illustration:  Patsey and the Snake.]

Neither Jerry, Hal, nor Ned could discover the cause of Patsey’s terror; for, in response to our many inquiries, he would only scratch his leg through the rent in his trousers, and constantly jump up and down, as though standing upon a hot griddle, all the while howling at the top of his lungs.

Becoming, at last, thoroughly angry, I seized the boy by the collar, and gave him such a shaking that I finally succeeded in getting an answer to the question, as to what was the matter.

“Mather!” roared Patsey.  “Mather enuff, God knows!  Shnakes is the mather!” making a desperate dive down into the leg of his pants.  “I’m bited to death wid a shnake, so I am.  Can’t yez all sae I’m a did mon?”

Now, as far as appearances went, Patsey was a long way from being a dead man, for he still indulged in more lively contortions than a corpse was ever known to execute; each movement accompanied by a yell almost loud enough to wake the dead.

An examination revealed the fact, that the boy had heedlessly spread his blanket over the entrance to the home of a colony of large black ants, and the little fellows, angry at his presumption, had attacked him, in the most spiteful manner, through the rents in his trousers.  Patsey, awakened out of a sound sleep by their stings, and remembering Ned’s adventure in the Organos mountains, had fancied himself the unfortunate victim of a like attack.  We finally succeeded in convincing him that he was not dead, nor likely to die; and then, the camp resumed its usual quiet.

Early in the morning, before we were ready to start, Jerry called my attention to several “bighorns,”—­or, more properly speaking, Rocky-Mountain sheep,—­that stood perched upon a high cliff which overhung our camp several hundred feet in the air.  As these were the first we had seen upon the route, I at once called Hal and Ned to witness the sight, who immediately proposed to make the attempt to capture one.

Jerry assured them it was impossible; for it would take hours to reach the spot where they stood, or even to get within rifle-range of them.  This fact alone would prevent starting on a hunt, as we were exceedingly anxious to get through the pass without being obliged to spend another night in so dangerous a locality.