In contrast with this was his
love of honey. The hunter on his trail learned that he never failed to
dig out any bees' nest he could find, or, finding none, he would eat
the little honey-flowers that hung like sleigh-bells on the heather.
Kellyan was quick to mark the signs. "Say, Bonamy, we've got to find
some honey."
It is not easy to find a bee tree without honey to fill your
bee-guides; so Bonamy rode down the mountain to the nearest camp, the
Tampico sheep camp, and got not honey but some sugar, of which they
made syrup. They caught bees at three or four different places, tagged
them with cotton, filled them with syrup and let them fly, watching
till the cotton tufts were lost to view, and by going on the lines
till they met they found the hive. A piece of gunny-sack filled with
comb was put on each trigger, and that night, as Gringo strode with
that long, untiring swing that eats up miles like steam-wheels, his
sentinel nose reported the delicious smell, the one that above the
rest meant joy. So Gringo Jack followed fast and far, for the place
was a mile away, and reaching the curious log cavern, he halted and
sniffed. There were hunters' smells; yes, but, above all, that smell
of joy. He walked around to be sure, and knew it was inside; then
cautiously he entered. Some wood-mice scurried by. He sniffed the
bait, licked it, mumbled it, slobbered it, reveled in it, tugged to
increase the flow, when "bang!" went the great door behind and Jack was
caught.
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