Chapter Seventeen.Crusader Chased Again.The scene, all action and excitement, has nevertheless occupied but a brief space of time: scarce two minutes since the grizzly bears first showed themselves on the edge of the glade till both lie dead within it—victims of their own ferocity.It might have been very different, and under like circumstances nearly always is. Many cases are recorded in which half a score of camp travellers have succumbed to the insane rage of a single grizzly. Fortunate, too, had been the miners in their shots—no doubt clue to the short range at which they were fired—for the thick, tough skin of this animal is almost ball-proof, and one has been known to bear off a dozen bullets in its body, and carry them about with it afterwards.The very openness of their danger, with no prospect of escaping it, had lent to the miners the courage of despair, and so made them more fearless in their attack; otherwise they would have fired at the enemy without approaching so near, perhaps to fail. Enough damage has been done notwithstanding, and a cry of lamentation succeeds the shots, and general shouting, as the women gather around the body of that single victim to the fury of the bears. Frightfully mutilated it is, showing parallel tears over the breast—the tracks of claws, all running blood, and a huge gash by the throat where the first stroke had been given.“Esta Pablito Rojas!” cries a voice, identifying the lad, others adding in sympathetic chorus, “Pobre! pobre-ceti!”There is one who takes no part in these demonstrations—Henry Tresillian. He is in fact no longer in the camp, for soon as the second grizzly had been disposed of, he started back for the vidette post, and so abruptly as to make all wonder who were observing him. Among the rest Gertrude herself, who thought it strange he should not stay to speak some words of congratulation. He but muttered one or two, with the name of his horse, well known to her, and was off.Now, from his former point of view, he again beholds Crusader standing just as left, and still to all appearance unmolested. It is more than he expected, but there may be reasons: possibly the shouts and fusillade above have for a time drawn the attention of the Indians in that direction. This will not be for long, and Crusader’s master but counts the moments till he see him assailed and chased.Nor are they many. Just after his return to the ravine’s head he observes nigh threescore dusky horsemen move out beyond the flanking embattlement of rock; not hastily, nor in confusion, but in deliberate and long deployed line, which stretches afar over thellano.Crusader sees them too, and seems to regard them with indifference; he has taken to browsing on a piece of rich pasture lying along the stream’s edge, this alone for the time occupying him. That he is the objective point of their movement is evident, though none of them are heading straight towards him, their design being evidently to get around him.After all, is he going to let himself be surrounded, and approached in this easy manner? Such is the interrogatory which passes among those watching from above, for the videttes have returned to their post, with others accompanying them.One answers it, saying, “It’s not at all likely. He let himself be taken in a trap! More like the redskins will find themselves in one before long. See! they begin to find it now!”This, from Pedro Vicente in his old spirit, as he points to the line of savages far extended.The files have by this faced westward, but are advancing towards the stream; now, on nearing it, they are seen to stop abruptly as if in surprise. Then, after an instant, all wheel round and ride back eastward, till getting on their old line, they return at a gallop towards their camp. They have discovered the stream to be impassable.“That horse is thedemoniohimself,” says Pedro Vicente—“neither more nor less. He must have known they could not cross the swollen streamlet, or he’d never have stopped by it as he has done. But they’ve not given him up yet. No! see: they’re going round by the head of the lake.”Just this they intend, as is seen by their advancing towards the point where the lake commences by the mouth of the ravine. They have no difficulty in crossing its in-going stream, a few minutes after the rain ceased having reduced this to its normal condition of a tiny rivulet.And like some dark, disagreeable vision Henry Tresillian sees pass before his eyes the savage cohort, file after file, one disappearing after another, till at length no animated form is observable on the plain below, save that their eyes have been hitherto regarding with interest.There is a long interval without event; nearly an hour elapses ere Crusader shows any sign, his head almost continuously to the grass, raised only occasionally, as he changes place upon it. All this time the Indians are out of sight, with no sound coming from the direction they had taken.But at length there is a sound, a startled neigh from the black horse, who, tossing his crest in air, rears upward with a curving sweep, and then darts straight away, as if in flight from an advancing enemy—the enemy seen instantly afterwards as several mounted men disclose themselves from the western framework of rock, all in a tail-on-end gallop.Crusader has taken along the edge of the stream, and follows it in parallel direction downwards, just as he fled before from the same pursuers. There would seem no chance of their overtaking him now; for he appears to gain distance at every bound, without even straining himself. But lo! what is that?“Santos Dios! They’ve headed him.Milraya! what a pity!”It is thegambusinowho thus exclaims, seeing other horsemen on the plain farther points on, all facing towards the stream, evidently to intercept the chased steed.Crusader sees them too, for he is now close up to them; but forsaking the course he has hitherto followed, he makes an abrupt turn and breaks off westward, continuing this direction in full gallop, till the rocks hide him from view.Alike the pursuers thrown round, pass out of sight one after another, and again that part of thellanoresumes its wonted aspect of stern, savage tranquillity.For most of those composing the party of spectators the chase had no particular interest, and only a few of them were gathered around the point where it could be viewed. Indeed, but a few heard of Crusader being seen, the greater and more serious event obscuring that of lesser note. And now these few, one after the other, again go back toojo de agua, to take part in the duties of the day.But the English youth still stays by the vidette post, with eye constantly directed on the plain below, and ears listening intently, to catch any sound that may come from the western side; apprehensively, too, for he fears to hear shots.The savages failing to catch the black horse with their laryettes, may spitefully endeavour to bring him down with their guns. This, indeed, is the real clanger his young master has been dreading, and which for the time engrosses all his thoughts.Luckily not for long. Within less than an hour the dusky horsemen, in twos and threes, come straggling back across the open ground between the lake’s head and their camp, so continuing till the last of them have returned, all with discomfited air, but none with Crusader as their captive. And as no report of gun has been heard, it is more than probable he has once more eluded them.
The scene, all action and excitement, has nevertheless occupied but a brief space of time: scarce two minutes since the grizzly bears first showed themselves on the edge of the glade till both lie dead within it—victims of their own ferocity.
It might have been very different, and under like circumstances nearly always is. Many cases are recorded in which half a score of camp travellers have succumbed to the insane rage of a single grizzly. Fortunate, too, had been the miners in their shots—no doubt clue to the short range at which they were fired—for the thick, tough skin of this animal is almost ball-proof, and one has been known to bear off a dozen bullets in its body, and carry them about with it afterwards.
The very openness of their danger, with no prospect of escaping it, had lent to the miners the courage of despair, and so made them more fearless in their attack; otherwise they would have fired at the enemy without approaching so near, perhaps to fail. Enough damage has been done notwithstanding, and a cry of lamentation succeeds the shots, and general shouting, as the women gather around the body of that single victim to the fury of the bears. Frightfully mutilated it is, showing parallel tears over the breast—the tracks of claws, all running blood, and a huge gash by the throat where the first stroke had been given.
“Esta Pablito Rojas!” cries a voice, identifying the lad, others adding in sympathetic chorus, “Pobre! pobre-ceti!”
There is one who takes no part in these demonstrations—Henry Tresillian. He is in fact no longer in the camp, for soon as the second grizzly had been disposed of, he started back for the vidette post, and so abruptly as to make all wonder who were observing him. Among the rest Gertrude herself, who thought it strange he should not stay to speak some words of congratulation. He but muttered one or two, with the name of his horse, well known to her, and was off.
Now, from his former point of view, he again beholds Crusader standing just as left, and still to all appearance unmolested. It is more than he expected, but there may be reasons: possibly the shouts and fusillade above have for a time drawn the attention of the Indians in that direction. This will not be for long, and Crusader’s master but counts the moments till he see him assailed and chased.
Nor are they many. Just after his return to the ravine’s head he observes nigh threescore dusky horsemen move out beyond the flanking embattlement of rock; not hastily, nor in confusion, but in deliberate and long deployed line, which stretches afar over thellano.
Crusader sees them too, and seems to regard them with indifference; he has taken to browsing on a piece of rich pasture lying along the stream’s edge, this alone for the time occupying him. That he is the objective point of their movement is evident, though none of them are heading straight towards him, their design being evidently to get around him.
After all, is he going to let himself be surrounded, and approached in this easy manner? Such is the interrogatory which passes among those watching from above, for the videttes have returned to their post, with others accompanying them.
One answers it, saying, “It’s not at all likely. He let himself be taken in a trap! More like the redskins will find themselves in one before long. See! they begin to find it now!”
This, from Pedro Vicente in his old spirit, as he points to the line of savages far extended.
The files have by this faced westward, but are advancing towards the stream; now, on nearing it, they are seen to stop abruptly as if in surprise. Then, after an instant, all wheel round and ride back eastward, till getting on their old line, they return at a gallop towards their camp. They have discovered the stream to be impassable.
“That horse is thedemoniohimself,” says Pedro Vicente—“neither more nor less. He must have known they could not cross the swollen streamlet, or he’d never have stopped by it as he has done. But they’ve not given him up yet. No! see: they’re going round by the head of the lake.”
Just this they intend, as is seen by their advancing towards the point where the lake commences by the mouth of the ravine. They have no difficulty in crossing its in-going stream, a few minutes after the rain ceased having reduced this to its normal condition of a tiny rivulet.
And like some dark, disagreeable vision Henry Tresillian sees pass before his eyes the savage cohort, file after file, one disappearing after another, till at length no animated form is observable on the plain below, save that their eyes have been hitherto regarding with interest.
There is a long interval without event; nearly an hour elapses ere Crusader shows any sign, his head almost continuously to the grass, raised only occasionally, as he changes place upon it. All this time the Indians are out of sight, with no sound coming from the direction they had taken.
But at length there is a sound, a startled neigh from the black horse, who, tossing his crest in air, rears upward with a curving sweep, and then darts straight away, as if in flight from an advancing enemy—the enemy seen instantly afterwards as several mounted men disclose themselves from the western framework of rock, all in a tail-on-end gallop.
Crusader has taken along the edge of the stream, and follows it in parallel direction downwards, just as he fled before from the same pursuers. There would seem no chance of their overtaking him now; for he appears to gain distance at every bound, without even straining himself. But lo! what is that?
“Santos Dios! They’ve headed him.Milraya! what a pity!”
It is thegambusinowho thus exclaims, seeing other horsemen on the plain farther points on, all facing towards the stream, evidently to intercept the chased steed.
Crusader sees them too, for he is now close up to them; but forsaking the course he has hitherto followed, he makes an abrupt turn and breaks off westward, continuing this direction in full gallop, till the rocks hide him from view.
Alike the pursuers thrown round, pass out of sight one after another, and again that part of thellanoresumes its wonted aspect of stern, savage tranquillity.
For most of those composing the party of spectators the chase had no particular interest, and only a few of them were gathered around the point where it could be viewed. Indeed, but a few heard of Crusader being seen, the greater and more serious event obscuring that of lesser note. And now these few, one after the other, again go back toojo de agua, to take part in the duties of the day.
But the English youth still stays by the vidette post, with eye constantly directed on the plain below, and ears listening intently, to catch any sound that may come from the western side; apprehensively, too, for he fears to hear shots.
The savages failing to catch the black horse with their laryettes, may spitefully endeavour to bring him down with their guns. This, indeed, is the real clanger his young master has been dreading, and which for the time engrosses all his thoughts.
Luckily not for long. Within less than an hour the dusky horsemen, in twos and threes, come straggling back across the open ground between the lake’s head and their camp, so continuing till the last of them have returned, all with discomfited air, but none with Crusader as their captive. And as no report of gun has been heard, it is more than probable he has once more eluded them.
Chapter Eighteen.Life on the Lost Mountain.The exciting events above recorded, as occurring in quick succession, are followed by a period of repose lasting for days. Alike reigns it on the mountain summit and around its base; in the camp of the besieged as of the besiegers.Withal, in the latter there is no lack of activity; parties go and come at all hours, but more especially during those of the night. Scouts sent out; it may be for many purposes. But one large detail is observed on a certain day to make the complete round of the mountain, every here and there halting with front towards it, as if for minute examination of its cliffs from base to summit; evidently to be satisfied whether there be any possible chance for the white men to reach the plain otherwise than down that chine cut by the watercourse.While making thisreconnaissancethey have been narrowly watched by eyes from above, and as no particular point has been observed to attract their attention, it is concluded that they deem their pale-faced prisoners quite secure, only calling for a little patience ere they may evidently lay hands on them.The same movement also gives assurance to their intended victims, but of a kind not so satisfactory. It tells them how determined their enemy is, how retentive his grasp, and implacable his vengeance. All this with no increased hope on their part of being able to escape him. Thought of how has not yet taken shape in their minds. How could it? So many present facts and fears engrossing them, they have found little time to reflect on the future.And a new fear has now arisen which calls for steps to be taken. There may be other grizzly bears on themesa, and if so these monsters will be prowling around the camp to assail it at any instant. Better they be met outside at a distance off, there attacked, and if possible exterminated.This conclusion come to, Don Estevan gives orders for all to arm, and a generalbattueis made over the summit of the Cerro. Paths are hacked through the underwood everywhere, laying open many a spot never before trodden by foot of man. Strange birds are flushed from their nests, and strange animals are seen stealing away through the thick tangle ofllianas, chiefly of the reptilian order, as armadillos, lizards, the curious horned frog (Agama cornuta), and serpents—most numerous of all that whose retreat is marked by the defiant rattle which has given it its name. Scores ofcascabelésare started out of the dead leaves and branches, their vibratory “skirr” resounding everywhere.But quadrupeds turn up as well. At intervals the crack of gun tells of one shot at, whether killed or no. Now a wild sheep, now a prong-horn antelope, or it may be but a hare or rabbit. The great wolf is also found there, and his lesser and more cowardly congener, the coyote; but no more bears—grizzly or other—nor sign of them. Evidently the two killed at the camp were the sole monarchs of the mountain.The day’s hunt, for it occupied a whole day, gives satisfaction in more ways than one. First, by doing away with all apprehension of danger fromUrsus ferox; secondly, by affording a plentiful supply of present food; and, thirdly, in there being still more on the mountain, giving proof of the abundance of them.Nor is the vegetable element lacking, but present in all its varieties of root, fruit, and berry. Themezcal, whose baked stem forms staple food for their enemies, grows on themesa. Its use is known to thegambusino, as others of the miners. Several sorts ofmezquitètrees are found there, whose long penduloussiliquescontain seeds which can be ground into a meal making nutritious bread, while the cones of the edible pine (Pinus edulis)—“piñon-nuts” as called—are in quantity all around. For fruit there are several varieties of the cactus, with that of pear-shape, and all the rich juiciness of a pear, the famedpitathaya. In short, the Cerro Perdido is a very oasis, its cornucopia peculiar to the desert. With so bountiful a supply of provisions the besieged need not fear famine, at least for a long time. Their resources, carefully husbanded, may last for weeks.And on time rests their only hope; their sole chance of being rescued depending on that, by some means or other, their situation may become known to their friends at Arispe, or their countrymen elsewhere.But what likelihood of this? As already stated, the Lost Mountain is out of the line of all travel and traffic. Months, a year, nay, years may elapse ere a wayfarer of any kind stray to it, or near it. So their chances of being seen there by friendly eyes, to say naught of their position being understood, are as those of castaways on a desert isle in mid-ocean.And as shipwrecked men they hoist signals of distress. Any one approaching that solitary eminence from the south might wonder to see a flag floating from a tall staff over its southern end, giving it all the greater resemblance to a fortress with banner waving above. A tricolour flag, bearing the symbolic badge of the Mexican Republic—the Eagle upon the Nopal! It is that Don Estevan had meant to have erected over the new mine, now little likely ever to be displayed there. For now it is unfolded to tell a tale of threatening disaster, and attract the eyes of those who may do something to avert it.But for this dark uncertainty of future there is nothing irksome, not even disagreeable, in their present life. On the contrary, it might be even called pleasant; plenty to eat, plenty to drink, sufficient freedom of range, a sapphire sky above, with an atmosphere around them whose heat is tempered by breezes ever blowing, ever laden with the fragrance of fruit and flower.And no scene of sombre gloomy silence; instead, one enlivened by the notes of many wild warblers, both diurnal and nocturnal. By day the jarring yet cheering cry of the blue jay and the red cardinal; the mewing of the catbird, or the “hew-hew” of hawk in pursuit of his victim. By night, the more melodious, all incomparable song of theczentzontlé—mockingbird of Mexico—oft intermingled with another song, but little less powerful or sweet, that of thecuitlacoche—a second species of New World nightingale, not so well known.Life in the odd aerial camp now settles down into a sort of routine, each day having its separate calls and duties. The watch is, of course, kept up, and with no falling off in its vigilance. For although the besiegers have not again shown any sign of an intention to try the assault, who knows what may be in the mind of these subtle savages?Only at night need there be any fear, and only when it is darkest. At other times the vidette duty is a matter of easy fulfilment.In truth the miners might almost fancy themselves in picnic, having a happy time of it, halfway between earth and heaven. But they are not there by choice, too well knowing its stern necessity. And this, with the dark doubtful future, robs them of all zest for enjoyment. So the hours pass not merrily, but wearily.
The exciting events above recorded, as occurring in quick succession, are followed by a period of repose lasting for days. Alike reigns it on the mountain summit and around its base; in the camp of the besieged as of the besiegers.
Withal, in the latter there is no lack of activity; parties go and come at all hours, but more especially during those of the night. Scouts sent out; it may be for many purposes. But one large detail is observed on a certain day to make the complete round of the mountain, every here and there halting with front towards it, as if for minute examination of its cliffs from base to summit; evidently to be satisfied whether there be any possible chance for the white men to reach the plain otherwise than down that chine cut by the watercourse.
While making thisreconnaissancethey have been narrowly watched by eyes from above, and as no particular point has been observed to attract their attention, it is concluded that they deem their pale-faced prisoners quite secure, only calling for a little patience ere they may evidently lay hands on them.
The same movement also gives assurance to their intended victims, but of a kind not so satisfactory. It tells them how determined their enemy is, how retentive his grasp, and implacable his vengeance. All this with no increased hope on their part of being able to escape him. Thought of how has not yet taken shape in their minds. How could it? So many present facts and fears engrossing them, they have found little time to reflect on the future.
And a new fear has now arisen which calls for steps to be taken. There may be other grizzly bears on themesa, and if so these monsters will be prowling around the camp to assail it at any instant. Better they be met outside at a distance off, there attacked, and if possible exterminated.
This conclusion come to, Don Estevan gives orders for all to arm, and a generalbattueis made over the summit of the Cerro. Paths are hacked through the underwood everywhere, laying open many a spot never before trodden by foot of man. Strange birds are flushed from their nests, and strange animals are seen stealing away through the thick tangle ofllianas, chiefly of the reptilian order, as armadillos, lizards, the curious horned frog (Agama cornuta), and serpents—most numerous of all that whose retreat is marked by the defiant rattle which has given it its name. Scores ofcascabelésare started out of the dead leaves and branches, their vibratory “skirr” resounding everywhere.
But quadrupeds turn up as well. At intervals the crack of gun tells of one shot at, whether killed or no. Now a wild sheep, now a prong-horn antelope, or it may be but a hare or rabbit. The great wolf is also found there, and his lesser and more cowardly congener, the coyote; but no more bears—grizzly or other—nor sign of them. Evidently the two killed at the camp were the sole monarchs of the mountain.
The day’s hunt, for it occupied a whole day, gives satisfaction in more ways than one. First, by doing away with all apprehension of danger fromUrsus ferox; secondly, by affording a plentiful supply of present food; and, thirdly, in there being still more on the mountain, giving proof of the abundance of them.
Nor is the vegetable element lacking, but present in all its varieties of root, fruit, and berry. Themezcal, whose baked stem forms staple food for their enemies, grows on themesa. Its use is known to thegambusino, as others of the miners. Several sorts ofmezquitètrees are found there, whose long penduloussiliquescontain seeds which can be ground into a meal making nutritious bread, while the cones of the edible pine (Pinus edulis)—“piñon-nuts” as called—are in quantity all around. For fruit there are several varieties of the cactus, with that of pear-shape, and all the rich juiciness of a pear, the famedpitathaya. In short, the Cerro Perdido is a very oasis, its cornucopia peculiar to the desert. With so bountiful a supply of provisions the besieged need not fear famine, at least for a long time. Their resources, carefully husbanded, may last for weeks.
And on time rests their only hope; their sole chance of being rescued depending on that, by some means or other, their situation may become known to their friends at Arispe, or their countrymen elsewhere.
But what likelihood of this? As already stated, the Lost Mountain is out of the line of all travel and traffic. Months, a year, nay, years may elapse ere a wayfarer of any kind stray to it, or near it. So their chances of being seen there by friendly eyes, to say naught of their position being understood, are as those of castaways on a desert isle in mid-ocean.
And as shipwrecked men they hoist signals of distress. Any one approaching that solitary eminence from the south might wonder to see a flag floating from a tall staff over its southern end, giving it all the greater resemblance to a fortress with banner waving above. A tricolour flag, bearing the symbolic badge of the Mexican Republic—the Eagle upon the Nopal! It is that Don Estevan had meant to have erected over the new mine, now little likely ever to be displayed there. For now it is unfolded to tell a tale of threatening disaster, and attract the eyes of those who may do something to avert it.
But for this dark uncertainty of future there is nothing irksome, not even disagreeable, in their present life. On the contrary, it might be even called pleasant; plenty to eat, plenty to drink, sufficient freedom of range, a sapphire sky above, with an atmosphere around them whose heat is tempered by breezes ever blowing, ever laden with the fragrance of fruit and flower.
And no scene of sombre gloomy silence; instead, one enlivened by the notes of many wild warblers, both diurnal and nocturnal. By day the jarring yet cheering cry of the blue jay and the red cardinal; the mewing of the catbird, or the “hew-hew” of hawk in pursuit of his victim. By night, the more melodious, all incomparable song of theczentzontlé—mockingbird of Mexico—oft intermingled with another song, but little less powerful or sweet, that of thecuitlacoche—a second species of New World nightingale, not so well known.
Life in the odd aerial camp now settles down into a sort of routine, each day having its separate calls and duties. The watch is, of course, kept up, and with no falling off in its vigilance. For although the besiegers have not again shown any sign of an intention to try the assault, who knows what may be in the mind of these subtle savages?
Only at night need there be any fear, and only when it is darkest. At other times the vidette duty is a matter of easy fulfilment.
In truth the miners might almost fancy themselves in picnic, having a happy time of it, halfway between earth and heaven. But they are not there by choice, too well knowing its stern necessity. And this, with the dark doubtful future, robs them of all zest for enjoyment. So the hours pass not merrily, but wearily.
Chapter Nineteen.Who to be the Forlorn Hope?Day succeeds day with no brightening of hopes to those beleaguered on the Lost Mountain. Instead, in each something arises to make their prospects darker, if that were possible.About ten days after the commencement of the siege the besiegers have their force increased, a fresh party coming down from the north, evidently in obedience to a summons, which they who drove off the capturedcaballadahave carried back. But for what purpose this accession of strength, when it is not needed? They on the ground are already enough, and to spare.The miners cannot guess what they have come about, unless it be the remaining braves of the tribe, to take part in some ceremony over their fallen chief, or be present when the time arrives for the wreaking of vengeance.It has nothing to do with that, however, solely a conception of their new leader, El Zopilote, who has his reasons for carrying out the raid down the Horcasitas. So on the second day after, the besieging party, instead of being one hundred men the more, is all that the less; at least two hundred seen to issue forth from the camp, and proceed southward in full war-paint and panoply, with all their frightful insignia. As successive files they move off along the stream’s edge, it might seem as some gigantic serpent commencing its crawl towards prey. And many on the mountain, with a suspicion of where they are going, have a pitying heart for those who live on the banks of the lower Horcasitas.Enough, however, to think of themselves, and each hour more than enough; for as the days pass circumstances present a still sterner front. The supply of provisions, at first seeming inexhaustible, proves to have a limit. There are over seventy mouths to feed, which calls for a large daily quantity. So one by one the wild quadrupeds give out, the birds long before these, frightened by the constant chase and fusillade, forsaking the place altogether. The store oftasajoand other preserved meats begins to be drawn upon. When these come to an end, so too must all the suspense, all the agonies of that quaint, quasi imprisonment, to terminate in real captivity, or indeed death itself.In the tent of Don Estevan some seven or eight of the mining people are assembled; the twodueñosare of course present, with themayor-domo, the chief engineer, and other heads of departments. No need to say thegambusinois among them. They are there to take counsel on the events of the day, and the means of the morrow. Every night it has been their custom to do so, and on this one—for it is at night—there is nothing very different to speak of from any other.Still, Don Estevan has conceived a thought which had not hitherto occurred to him, and now lays it before the assembled conclave.“Caballeros! I can think of only one way—poor, doubtful chance it is—by which we may get rescued. Some one must contrive to pass their sentries.”“Impossible!” is the thought of all hearing him, one or two expressing it in speech. For of all the things observed as vigorously kept up, never relaxed for an hour—even a moment—has been that sentinel line thrown across the plain from flank to flank of the ravine. All day long it has appeared there, and all through the night evidently redoubled.“Pity if it be,” rejoins Don Estevan, yielding to what appears the general sentiment. “And to think that one word at Arispe would make all well. My own brother-in-law, Colonel Requeñes, in command there with a regiment of lancers—they of Zacatecas. In less than half an hour they could be in the saddle, and hastening to our relief.Ay Dios! if we can’t communicate with them we are lost—surely lost!”At this, Robert Tresillian says, interrogatively:“I wonder how many of our people could find the way back to Arispe?”Without altogether comprehending what he means, several numbers are mentioned in a guessing way, according to the estimate of each. Pedro Vicente thinks at least thirty could,—certainly all thearrierosandvaqueros.“What is your idea, Don Roberto?” at length asks the senior partner.“That all of those who know the way back be mustered, and two taken from them by lot, who will run the risk of passing the Indian sentries. If they succeed, then all may be saved; if on the contrary, it will be but to lose their lives a little sooner. I propose that all submit to the lottery—all who are unmarried.”“I agree with the Señor Tresillian,” here puts in thegambusino. “Some of us must contrive to get past them at whatever risk. For my part, I’m willing to be one, with any other.”The generous proposal is received with applause, but not accepted,—it would not be fair; and in fine it is agreed upon, that fate shall determine who shall be the pair to run the proposed risk—the ceremony for deciding it to take place on the morrow.In the morning it comes off soon as breakfast is eaten. All known to be eligible are summoned together on a spot of ground apart, and told the purport of their being so assembled. No one objects, or tries to evade the dangerous conscription; instead, there are even some who, like Vicente, would volunteer for the duty.For is not one of thedueños—the brave Englishman and his son, there present—both offering themselves as candidates like any of the common men?No volunteering, then, is allowed; fortune alone permitted to decide on whom shall be the forlorn hope.The quaint lottery, though awe-inspiring, occupies but a brief space of time. Against the number of men who are to take part in it, a like number ofpiñon-nutshave been counted out, and dropped into a deep-crownedsombrero. Two of the nuts have been already stained with gunpowder, the others left in their natural colour; but no one by the feel could tell which was which. The black ones are to be theprizes.The men stand in a ring round Don Estevan, with another who is among the exempt in the centre. These hold the hat, into which one after another, stepping from the circle, led forward blindfolded, inserts his hand, and draws out a nut. If white, he goes clear; but long before the white ones are exhausted the two blacks are taken up, which brings the ceremony to an abrupt end, that deciding all.They who have drawn theprizesare a muleteer and a cattle drover, both brave fellows. They had need be, for this very night they will have to run the gauntlet of life and death, perhaps ere the morrow’s sun to be no more.
Day succeeds day with no brightening of hopes to those beleaguered on the Lost Mountain. Instead, in each something arises to make their prospects darker, if that were possible.
About ten days after the commencement of the siege the besiegers have their force increased, a fresh party coming down from the north, evidently in obedience to a summons, which they who drove off the capturedcaballadahave carried back. But for what purpose this accession of strength, when it is not needed? They on the ground are already enough, and to spare.
The miners cannot guess what they have come about, unless it be the remaining braves of the tribe, to take part in some ceremony over their fallen chief, or be present when the time arrives for the wreaking of vengeance.
It has nothing to do with that, however, solely a conception of their new leader, El Zopilote, who has his reasons for carrying out the raid down the Horcasitas. So on the second day after, the besieging party, instead of being one hundred men the more, is all that the less; at least two hundred seen to issue forth from the camp, and proceed southward in full war-paint and panoply, with all their frightful insignia. As successive files they move off along the stream’s edge, it might seem as some gigantic serpent commencing its crawl towards prey. And many on the mountain, with a suspicion of where they are going, have a pitying heart for those who live on the banks of the lower Horcasitas.
Enough, however, to think of themselves, and each hour more than enough; for as the days pass circumstances present a still sterner front. The supply of provisions, at first seeming inexhaustible, proves to have a limit. There are over seventy mouths to feed, which calls for a large daily quantity. So one by one the wild quadrupeds give out, the birds long before these, frightened by the constant chase and fusillade, forsaking the place altogether. The store oftasajoand other preserved meats begins to be drawn upon. When these come to an end, so too must all the suspense, all the agonies of that quaint, quasi imprisonment, to terminate in real captivity, or indeed death itself.
In the tent of Don Estevan some seven or eight of the mining people are assembled; the twodueñosare of course present, with themayor-domo, the chief engineer, and other heads of departments. No need to say thegambusinois among them. They are there to take counsel on the events of the day, and the means of the morrow. Every night it has been their custom to do so, and on this one—for it is at night—there is nothing very different to speak of from any other.
Still, Don Estevan has conceived a thought which had not hitherto occurred to him, and now lays it before the assembled conclave.
“Caballeros! I can think of only one way—poor, doubtful chance it is—by which we may get rescued. Some one must contrive to pass their sentries.”
“Impossible!” is the thought of all hearing him, one or two expressing it in speech. For of all the things observed as vigorously kept up, never relaxed for an hour—even a moment—has been that sentinel line thrown across the plain from flank to flank of the ravine. All day long it has appeared there, and all through the night evidently redoubled.
“Pity if it be,” rejoins Don Estevan, yielding to what appears the general sentiment. “And to think that one word at Arispe would make all well. My own brother-in-law, Colonel Requeñes, in command there with a regiment of lancers—they of Zacatecas. In less than half an hour they could be in the saddle, and hastening to our relief.Ay Dios! if we can’t communicate with them we are lost—surely lost!”
At this, Robert Tresillian says, interrogatively:
“I wonder how many of our people could find the way back to Arispe?”
Without altogether comprehending what he means, several numbers are mentioned in a guessing way, according to the estimate of each. Pedro Vicente thinks at least thirty could,—certainly all thearrierosandvaqueros.
“What is your idea, Don Roberto?” at length asks the senior partner.
“That all of those who know the way back be mustered, and two taken from them by lot, who will run the risk of passing the Indian sentries. If they succeed, then all may be saved; if on the contrary, it will be but to lose their lives a little sooner. I propose that all submit to the lottery—all who are unmarried.”
“I agree with the Señor Tresillian,” here puts in thegambusino. “Some of us must contrive to get past them at whatever risk. For my part, I’m willing to be one, with any other.”
The generous proposal is received with applause, but not accepted,—it would not be fair; and in fine it is agreed upon, that fate shall determine who shall be the pair to run the proposed risk—the ceremony for deciding it to take place on the morrow.
In the morning it comes off soon as breakfast is eaten. All known to be eligible are summoned together on a spot of ground apart, and told the purport of their being so assembled. No one objects, or tries to evade the dangerous conscription; instead, there are even some who, like Vicente, would volunteer for the duty.
For is not one of thedueños—the brave Englishman and his son, there present—both offering themselves as candidates like any of the common men?
No volunteering, then, is allowed; fortune alone permitted to decide on whom shall be the forlorn hope.
The quaint lottery, though awe-inspiring, occupies but a brief space of time. Against the number of men who are to take part in it, a like number ofpiñon-nutshave been counted out, and dropped into a deep-crownedsombrero. Two of the nuts have been already stained with gunpowder, the others left in their natural colour; but no one by the feel could tell which was which. The black ones are to be theprizes.
The men stand in a ring round Don Estevan, with another who is among the exempt in the centre. These hold the hat, into which one after another, stepping from the circle, led forward blindfolded, inserts his hand, and draws out a nut. If white, he goes clear; but long before the white ones are exhausted the two blacks are taken up, which brings the ceremony to an abrupt end, that deciding all.
They who have drawn theprizesare a muleteer and a cattle drover, both brave fellows. They had need be, for this very night they will have to run the gauntlet of life and death, perhaps ere the morrow’s sun to be no more.
Chapter Twenty.A Fatal Failure.It is a day of anxious solicitude. If the night turn out a dark one, the messengers whom fate has chosen for the perilous enterprise are to set out on their errand. They know it is to be a moonless one, but for all, in the diaphanous atmosphere of that upland plateau, it may be too clear to make the passing of the Indian sentinels at all possible.The afternoon begets hope: a bank of heavy clouds is seen rising along the western sky, which, rolling higher and higher, brings on a downpour of rain. It is of short continuance, however—over before sunset, the clouds again dispersing. Then the darkness comes down, but for a long time only in a glimmering of grey, the stars in grand sheen making it almost as clear if there was moonlight.The sentinels can be seen in their old places like a row of dark stakes, conspicuous against the green turf on which they are stationed. They are at short distances apart, and every now and then forms are observed moving from one to the other, as if to keep them continuously on the alert.So thus, nigh up to the hour of midnight, and the miners begin to despair of their messengers being able to pass out—at least, on this night.But soon, to their satisfaction, something shows itself promising a different result. The surface of the lake has suddenly turned white, as if under a covering of snow. It is fog. Through the heated atmosphere the lately-fallen rain is rising in vapour, and within its misty shroud it envelopes not only the lake, but the plain around its edges. It rolls over the line of savage watchers, on up between the jaws of the chine, till in its damp clammy film it embraces the bodies of those who are waiting above.“Now’s your time,muchachos!” says Don Estevan, addressing himself to those who are to adventure. “There could not be a better opportunity; if they can’t be passed now, they never can.”The two men are there ready, and equipped for the undertaking. Young fellows both, with a brave look, and no sign of quailing or desire to back out. Each carries a small wallet of provisions strapped to his person, with a pistol in his belt, but no other arms or accoutrements to encumber them. In subtleness and activity, more than mere physical force, lie their chances of success.A shaking of hands with such of their old comrades as are near, farewells exchanged when they pass over the parapet of loose stones to commence the descent, with many a “va con Dios!” sent after them in accents of earnest prayerfulness. Then follows an interregnum of profound silence, during which time they at the ravine’s head listen with keenest anxiety.After a few seconds a slight rustling below tells that one of the two has made a slip, or pushed a stone out of place; but nothing comes of it. Then a horse neighs in the distant camp, and soon after another, neither of them having any significance. No more the screaming of wild-fowl at the lower end of the lake, nor the querulous cry of “chuck-will’s widow,” hawking high over it. None of these sounds have any portent as to the affair in hand, and they, listening, begin to hope that it has succeeded—for surely there has been time for the two men to have got beyond the guarded line?Hope premature, alas! to be disappointed. Up out of the mist comes the sound of voices, as if in hail, followed by dubious response, and quick succeeding a struggle with shots. Then a cry or two as in agony, a shout of triumph, and all silent as before.For the rest of the night they on themesasleep not. Too surely has their scheme failed, and their messengers fallen victims to it. If they were any doubts about this, these are set at rest at an early hour of the morning.Sad evidence they have to convince them. On the spot where the scalp-dance had taken place a red pole is again erected, as the other ornamented with the skins of human heads. But not now to be danced around; though for a time they, looking from above, think there is to be a repetition of that savage ceremony. Soon they are undeceived, and know it to be a spectacle still more appalling. From the camp they see a man conducted, whom they identify as one of their ill-fated messengers. Taken on to the stake, he is placed back against it, with arms extended and strapped to a cross-piece, in a way representing the figure of the Crucifixion. His breast has been stripped bare, and on it is seen painted in white the hideous symbol of the Death’s head and crossbones.For what purpose all this display? the spectators conjecture among themselves. Not long till they have the answer. They see several scores of the savages range themselves at a certain distance off, each gun in hand, one after the other taking aim and discharging his piece at the human target. Gradually the disc on the breast is seen to darken, turning red, till at length not a spot of white is visible. But long ere this the head of the hapless victim, drooped over his shoulder, tells that he is dead.The cruel tragedy is repeated, showing now what was not known before, that both the ill-starred couriers had been taken alive. He brought forth next is recognisable, by the picturesque dress still on his person, as thevaquero. But when taken up to the stake he is stripped of it, the velveteenjaquetapulled from off his shoulders, his shirt torn away, leaving his breast bare. Then with a hurried touch, the grim, ghastly device is limned upon him, and he is taken up to the pole as the other.A fresh fusillade commences, the white gradually showing dimmer, till at length it is deeply encrimsoned, and thevaquerois a lifeless corpse.When it is all over, the Coyoteros turn towards the gorge, and looking up, give utterance to wild yells of triumph, brandishing their weapons in a threatening manner, as much as to say, “That’s the way we’ll serve you all, when the time comes.”
It is a day of anxious solicitude. If the night turn out a dark one, the messengers whom fate has chosen for the perilous enterprise are to set out on their errand. They know it is to be a moonless one, but for all, in the diaphanous atmosphere of that upland plateau, it may be too clear to make the passing of the Indian sentinels at all possible.
The afternoon begets hope: a bank of heavy clouds is seen rising along the western sky, which, rolling higher and higher, brings on a downpour of rain. It is of short continuance, however—over before sunset, the clouds again dispersing. Then the darkness comes down, but for a long time only in a glimmering of grey, the stars in grand sheen making it almost as clear if there was moonlight.
The sentinels can be seen in their old places like a row of dark stakes, conspicuous against the green turf on which they are stationed. They are at short distances apart, and every now and then forms are observed moving from one to the other, as if to keep them continuously on the alert.
So thus, nigh up to the hour of midnight, and the miners begin to despair of their messengers being able to pass out—at least, on this night.
But soon, to their satisfaction, something shows itself promising a different result. The surface of the lake has suddenly turned white, as if under a covering of snow. It is fog. Through the heated atmosphere the lately-fallen rain is rising in vapour, and within its misty shroud it envelopes not only the lake, but the plain around its edges. It rolls over the line of savage watchers, on up between the jaws of the chine, till in its damp clammy film it embraces the bodies of those who are waiting above.
“Now’s your time,muchachos!” says Don Estevan, addressing himself to those who are to adventure. “There could not be a better opportunity; if they can’t be passed now, they never can.”
The two men are there ready, and equipped for the undertaking. Young fellows both, with a brave look, and no sign of quailing or desire to back out. Each carries a small wallet of provisions strapped to his person, with a pistol in his belt, but no other arms or accoutrements to encumber them. In subtleness and activity, more than mere physical force, lie their chances of success.
A shaking of hands with such of their old comrades as are near, farewells exchanged when they pass over the parapet of loose stones to commence the descent, with many a “va con Dios!” sent after them in accents of earnest prayerfulness. Then follows an interregnum of profound silence, during which time they at the ravine’s head listen with keenest anxiety.
After a few seconds a slight rustling below tells that one of the two has made a slip, or pushed a stone out of place; but nothing comes of it. Then a horse neighs in the distant camp, and soon after another, neither of them having any significance. No more the screaming of wild-fowl at the lower end of the lake, nor the querulous cry of “chuck-will’s widow,” hawking high over it. None of these sounds have any portent as to the affair in hand, and they, listening, begin to hope that it has succeeded—for surely there has been time for the two men to have got beyond the guarded line?
Hope premature, alas! to be disappointed. Up out of the mist comes the sound of voices, as if in hail, followed by dubious response, and quick succeeding a struggle with shots. Then a cry or two as in agony, a shout of triumph, and all silent as before.
For the rest of the night they on themesasleep not. Too surely has their scheme failed, and their messengers fallen victims to it. If they were any doubts about this, these are set at rest at an early hour of the morning.
Sad evidence they have to convince them. On the spot where the scalp-dance had taken place a red pole is again erected, as the other ornamented with the skins of human heads. But not now to be danced around; though for a time they, looking from above, think there is to be a repetition of that savage ceremony. Soon they are undeceived, and know it to be a spectacle still more appalling. From the camp they see a man conducted, whom they identify as one of their ill-fated messengers. Taken on to the stake, he is placed back against it, with arms extended and strapped to a cross-piece, in a way representing the figure of the Crucifixion. His breast has been stripped bare, and on it is seen painted in white the hideous symbol of the Death’s head and crossbones.
For what purpose all this display? the spectators conjecture among themselves. Not long till they have the answer. They see several scores of the savages range themselves at a certain distance off, each gun in hand, one after the other taking aim and discharging his piece at the human target. Gradually the disc on the breast is seen to darken, turning red, till at length not a spot of white is visible. But long ere this the head of the hapless victim, drooped over his shoulder, tells that he is dead.
The cruel tragedy is repeated, showing now what was not known before, that both the ill-starred couriers had been taken alive. He brought forth next is recognisable, by the picturesque dress still on his person, as thevaquero. But when taken up to the stake he is stripped of it, the velveteenjaquetapulled from off his shoulders, his shirt torn away, leaving his breast bare. Then with a hurried touch, the grim, ghastly device is limned upon him, and he is taken up to the pole as the other.
A fresh fusillade commences, the white gradually showing dimmer, till at length it is deeply encrimsoned, and thevaquerois a lifeless corpse.
When it is all over, the Coyoteros turn towards the gorge, and looking up, give utterance to wild yells of triumph, brandishing their weapons in a threatening manner, as much as to say, “That’s the way we’ll serve you all, when the time comes.”
Chapter Twenty One.A Prodigious Leap.Needless to say that the failure of their scheme with such fatal consequence has deepened the gloom in the minds of the besieged miners, already dark enough. Now more than ever do they believe themselves doomed. There seems no alternative left but surrender or starvation and as both are alike certain death, they dwell not on the first. True, starvation is not yet so close at hand; they have still provisions—some of the old caravan stores—sufficient for a couple of weeks, if carefully served out, while the live stock furnished by themesaitself has not all been exhausted. Some animals as yet remain uncaptured, though how many they know not.To make sure, another grandbattueis set on foot to embrace the whole summit area. Every outlying corner and promontory are quartered and beaten, so that no four-footed creature could possibly be there without being seen or shot. The result is a bag, of but small dimensions, though with large variety; a prong-horn antelope, the last of a band that had been daily getting thinned; several sage hares, a wolf, and three or four coyotes. More of these last were startled, but not killed, as they have lairs in the ledges of the cliffs to which they betake themselves, secure from pursuit of hunter.While thebattueis at its height, one large quadruped is put up which more than any other excites the ardour of those engaged. It is a bighorn, or Rocky Mountain sheep, remnant of that flock first found upon themesaby Vicente and Henry Tresillian; it is also a ram, a young one, but with grand curvature of horns. One after another all the rest have been made mutton of, and their bones lie bleaching around the camp; but, though several times chased, this sole survivor has ever contrived to escape, as though it had a charmed life. And now again it seems still under such protection; for at starting several shots are fired at it, none taking effect; and it bounds on, apparently unharmed, towards an outlying projection of the plateau.Those who have emptied their guns follow without staying to re-load; for they form a line which, deployed crossways, cannot fail to enclose and cut off its retreat, making escape impossible. In fine, they effect this purpose; some, with guns still charged, confidently advancing to give the animal itscoup de grâce. They are even aiming at it, when, lo! a leap upward and outward, with head bent down as one making a dive, and the bighorn bounds over the cliff.Five hundred feet fall—shattered to atoms on the rocks below!—this their thought as they approach the precipice to see the prodigious leap that must have been taken by the animal in its panic of fear. One, however, draws nigh with a different thought, knows there was method in that seeming madness, and that thecarnerosprang over with a design. Pedro Vicente it is; and with the others soon upon the cliff’s brow, and, gazing below, to their surprise they see no sheep there, dead and crushed as expected. Instead, a live one out upon thellano, making off in strides long and vigorous.Sure of its being the same they had just driven over, all are astounded, expressing their astonishment in loud ejaculations. Alone thegambusinois silent, a pleased expression pervading his countenance, for that extraordinary feat of the horned creature has let a flood of light into his mind, giving him renewed hope that they may still be saved. He says nothing of it to those around, leaving it for more mature consideration, and to be discussed in their council of the night.But long after the others have returned to camp he lingers on the cliff, treading backwards and forwards along its crest, surveying it from every possible point of vantage, as though in an endeavour to find out how the sheep made that extraordinary descent.Another night is on, and, as is their wont, the chief men of those besieged are assembled in the tent of Don Estevan. Not discouraged yet, for there is a rumour among them that some new plan has been thought of for passing the Indian sentries, less likely to be disastrous than that which has failed. It has been the whisper of the afternoon, their guide being regarded as he who has conceived a scheme.When all are together Don Estevan calls upon him to declare it, saying,“I understand, Señor Vicente, you’ve thought of a way by which a messenger may yet elude the vigilance of their sentries, and get beyond them?”“I have, your worship.”“Please make it known.”“Nothing more simple; and I only wonder at not having thought of it before. After all, that would have been useless, for only this day have I discovered the thing to be possible.”“We long to hear what it is.”“Well, then, señores, it’s but to give them the slip. Going out by the back door, while they are so carefully guarding the front. That can be done by our letting one down the cliff—two, if need be.”“But where?”“Where thecarnerowent over.”“What! five hundred feet? Impossible! We have not rope enough to reach half the distance.”“We don’t need rope to reach much more than a third of it.”“Indeed! Explain yourself, Don Pedro.”“I will, your worship, and it is thus. I’ve examined the cliff carefully, where the sheep went over. There are ledges at intervals; it is true not wide, but broad enough for the animal to have dropped upon and stuck. They can cling to the rocks like squirrels or cats. Some of the ledges run downwards, then zigzag into others, also with a downward slope; and the ram must have followed these, now and then making a plunge, where it became necessary, to alight on his hoofs or horns, as the case might be. Anyhow, he got safe to the bottom, as we know, and where it went down, so may we.”There is a pause of silence, all looking pleased for the words of thegambusinohave resuscitated hopes that had almost died out. They can see the possibility he speaks of, their only doubt and drawback being the fear they may not have rope enough.“It seems but a question of that,” says Don Estevan, as if speaking reflectingly to himself.The others are also considering, each trying to recall how much and how many of their trail-ropes were brought up in that hastydebendadefrom their camp below.“Por Dios! your worship,” rejoins thegambusino, “it is no question of that whatever. We have the materials to make cords enough, not only to go down the cliff, but all round the mountain. Miles, if it were needed!”“What materials?” demanded several of the party, mystified.“Mira!” exclaims thegambusino. “This!” He starts up from a bundle of drymezcal-leaves on which he has been seated, pushing it before him with his foot.All comprehend him now, knowing that the fibre of these is a flax, or rather hemp, capable of being worked into thread, cloth, or cordage; and they know that on themesais an unlimited supply of it.“No question of rope,caballeros; only the time it will take us to manufacture it. And with men such as you, used to such gearing, that should not be long.”“It shall not,” respond all. “We’ll work night and day till it be done.”“One day, I take it, will be enough—that to-morrow. And if luck attend us, by this time to-morrow night we may have our messengers on the way, safe beyond pursuit of these accursed redskins.”Some more details are discussed maturing their plans for the rope-making. Then all retire to rest, this night with more hopeful anticipations than they have had for many preceding.
Needless to say that the failure of their scheme with such fatal consequence has deepened the gloom in the minds of the besieged miners, already dark enough. Now more than ever do they believe themselves doomed. There seems no alternative left but surrender or starvation and as both are alike certain death, they dwell not on the first. True, starvation is not yet so close at hand; they have still provisions—some of the old caravan stores—sufficient for a couple of weeks, if carefully served out, while the live stock furnished by themesaitself has not all been exhausted. Some animals as yet remain uncaptured, though how many they know not.
To make sure, another grandbattueis set on foot to embrace the whole summit area. Every outlying corner and promontory are quartered and beaten, so that no four-footed creature could possibly be there without being seen or shot. The result is a bag, of but small dimensions, though with large variety; a prong-horn antelope, the last of a band that had been daily getting thinned; several sage hares, a wolf, and three or four coyotes. More of these last were startled, but not killed, as they have lairs in the ledges of the cliffs to which they betake themselves, secure from pursuit of hunter.
While thebattueis at its height, one large quadruped is put up which more than any other excites the ardour of those engaged. It is a bighorn, or Rocky Mountain sheep, remnant of that flock first found upon themesaby Vicente and Henry Tresillian; it is also a ram, a young one, but with grand curvature of horns. One after another all the rest have been made mutton of, and their bones lie bleaching around the camp; but, though several times chased, this sole survivor has ever contrived to escape, as though it had a charmed life. And now again it seems still under such protection; for at starting several shots are fired at it, none taking effect; and it bounds on, apparently unharmed, towards an outlying projection of the plateau.
Those who have emptied their guns follow without staying to re-load; for they form a line which, deployed crossways, cannot fail to enclose and cut off its retreat, making escape impossible. In fine, they effect this purpose; some, with guns still charged, confidently advancing to give the animal itscoup de grâce. They are even aiming at it, when, lo! a leap upward and outward, with head bent down as one making a dive, and the bighorn bounds over the cliff.
Five hundred feet fall—shattered to atoms on the rocks below!—this their thought as they approach the precipice to see the prodigious leap that must have been taken by the animal in its panic of fear. One, however, draws nigh with a different thought, knows there was method in that seeming madness, and that thecarnerosprang over with a design. Pedro Vicente it is; and with the others soon upon the cliff’s brow, and, gazing below, to their surprise they see no sheep there, dead and crushed as expected. Instead, a live one out upon thellano, making off in strides long and vigorous.
Sure of its being the same they had just driven over, all are astounded, expressing their astonishment in loud ejaculations. Alone thegambusinois silent, a pleased expression pervading his countenance, for that extraordinary feat of the horned creature has let a flood of light into his mind, giving him renewed hope that they may still be saved. He says nothing of it to those around, leaving it for more mature consideration, and to be discussed in their council of the night.
But long after the others have returned to camp he lingers on the cliff, treading backwards and forwards along its crest, surveying it from every possible point of vantage, as though in an endeavour to find out how the sheep made that extraordinary descent.
Another night is on, and, as is their wont, the chief men of those besieged are assembled in the tent of Don Estevan. Not discouraged yet, for there is a rumour among them that some new plan has been thought of for passing the Indian sentries, less likely to be disastrous than that which has failed. It has been the whisper of the afternoon, their guide being regarded as he who has conceived a scheme.
When all are together Don Estevan calls upon him to declare it, saying,
“I understand, Señor Vicente, you’ve thought of a way by which a messenger may yet elude the vigilance of their sentries, and get beyond them?”
“I have, your worship.”
“Please make it known.”
“Nothing more simple; and I only wonder at not having thought of it before. After all, that would have been useless, for only this day have I discovered the thing to be possible.”
“We long to hear what it is.”
“Well, then, señores, it’s but to give them the slip. Going out by the back door, while they are so carefully guarding the front. That can be done by our letting one down the cliff—two, if need be.”
“But where?”
“Where thecarnerowent over.”
“What! five hundred feet? Impossible! We have not rope enough to reach half the distance.”
“We don’t need rope to reach much more than a third of it.”
“Indeed! Explain yourself, Don Pedro.”
“I will, your worship, and it is thus. I’ve examined the cliff carefully, where the sheep went over. There are ledges at intervals; it is true not wide, but broad enough for the animal to have dropped upon and stuck. They can cling to the rocks like squirrels or cats. Some of the ledges run downwards, then zigzag into others, also with a downward slope; and the ram must have followed these, now and then making a plunge, where it became necessary, to alight on his hoofs or horns, as the case might be. Anyhow, he got safe to the bottom, as we know, and where it went down, so may we.”
There is a pause of silence, all looking pleased for the words of thegambusinohave resuscitated hopes that had almost died out. They can see the possibility he speaks of, their only doubt and drawback being the fear they may not have rope enough.
“It seems but a question of that,” says Don Estevan, as if speaking reflectingly to himself.
The others are also considering, each trying to recall how much and how many of their trail-ropes were brought up in that hastydebendadefrom their camp below.
“Por Dios! your worship,” rejoins thegambusino, “it is no question of that whatever. We have the materials to make cords enough, not only to go down the cliff, but all round the mountain. Miles, if it were needed!”
“What materials?” demanded several of the party, mystified.
“Mira!” exclaims thegambusino. “This!” He starts up from a bundle of drymezcal-leaves on which he has been seated, pushing it before him with his foot.
All comprehend him now, knowing that the fibre of these is a flax, or rather hemp, capable of being worked into thread, cloth, or cordage; and they know that on themesais an unlimited supply of it.
“No question of rope,caballeros; only the time it will take us to manufacture it. And with men such as you, used to such gearing, that should not be long.”
“It shall not,” respond all. “We’ll work night and day till it be done.”
“One day, I take it, will be enough—that to-morrow. And if luck attend us, by this time to-morrow night we may have our messengers on the way, safe beyond pursuit of these accursed redskins.”
Some more details are discussed maturing their plans for the rope-making. Then all retire to rest, this night with more hopeful anticipations than they have had for many preceding.
Chapter Twenty Two.A Youthful Volunteer.Another day dawns, and as the earliest rays of the sun light up the Cerro Perdido, an unusual bustle is observed in the camp of the besieged. Men are busy collecting the leaves of themezcal-plant, those that are withered and dry from having their corms cut out days before; fortunately there are many of these lying all around. Other men, armed with rudely-shaped mallets, beat them against the trunks of trees, to separate the fibre from the now desiccated pulp; while still others are twisting this into threads, by a further process to be converted into thick ropes.It is found that after all not so much will be needed; several lassoes had been brought up, tied round the bundles of goods; and with these and other odds and ends of cordage, a rope can be put together full two hundred feet in length, strong enough to sustain the weight of any man. So, long before night the lowering apparatus is ready, and, as before, they await the darkness to make use of it.Meanwhile Don Estevan, the two Tresillians, and Vicente spend most of the morning on the cliff where the bighorn went over, surveying it from every possible point, taking the bearings of its ledges, and estimating their distances from one another. They are, as thegambusinohad represented them, a succession of very narrow benches, but wide enough for a man to find footing; some horizontal, others with a slope downwards, then a zigzag bringing them lower, till within a hundred feet from the cliff’s base thefaçadeof rocks shows sheer and clear. Down to this point all will be easy; and beyond it they anticipate little difficulty, now that they are sure of having sufficient rope.While engaged in their reconnaissance, an object comes under their eyes which they gaze upon with interest. They are upon the western side of themesanot far above its southern point, the plain on that side being invisible from the camp of the besiegers; and on this, at the distance of a mile or more, there is a spot of pasture due to a tiny rivulet, which, filtering off from the side of the lake, becomes dispersed over a considerable surface, which it moistens and makes green.Moving to and fro over this verdant stretch is the object which has caught their attention—a horse of large size and coal-black colour, which they know to be no other than Crusader. They are not surprised at seeing him there. Habitually he frequents this spot, which has become his accustomed pasturing-ground, and more than once had Henry Tresillian stood on that cliff regarding him with fond affectionate gaze; more than once, too, had the Indians again gone in chase of him, to be foiled as before. There is he still unlassoed, free of limb as the antelopes seen flitting over thellanoaround him.After completing the examination of their precipice, and noting all details that may be needed to help out their design, they stand for a time gazing at the horse, his young master with a thought in his mind which he withholds from the others. Nor does he communicate it to them till after their return to the camp, and the question comes up, who are the ones to be lowered down; for it is thought better that two messengers should be sent, as company and support to each other. That is the question to be decided, and up to this hour all expect it to be as before—by lottery.In fine, when the time arrives for settling it, and the eligible ones are again assembled for drawing lots, a proposal is made which takes every one present by surprise. It comes from the youngest of the party, Henry Tresillian, who says:“Let me go alone.”All eyes turn upon him inquiringly and in wonder, none more than those of his father, who exclaims:“You go alone, my son! Why do you propose that?”“Because it will be best, father.”“How best? I do not understand you.”“Crusader can only carry one.”“Ah! Crusader—that’s what you’re thinking of?”“Por Dios!” exclaims the senior partner, “I see what your son means, Don Roberto; his idea is admirable!”“Yes,” says the English youth in answer to his father; “I’ve been thinking of it ever since yesterday. On Crusader’s back I can be at Arispe days before any foot messenger could arrive there. Once I had him between my legs, no fear of Indians overtaking me.”“The very thing!” cries Don Estevan, delighted. “But, Señor Henrique, are you sure you can catch the horse?”“Catch him! he will come to my call. Once on the plain, and within hearing of my voice, I’ve no fear of his soon being by my side.”“But why not let me take him?” puts in Pedro Vicente, as if to spare the generous youth from undertaking such a risk. “I know the road better than you,muchacho.”“That may be,” returns the other. “But I know it well enough. Besides, Crusader will let no one catch him but myself—much less ride him.”During all this conversation the bystanders regard the young Englishman with looks of admiration. Never before have they seen so much courage combined with intelligence. And all to be exerted in their favour; for they have not forgotten the fate of their two comrades, put to death in such a cruel fashion. Every one of them fears that the like may befall himself, should it be his ill luck to draw a blackpinonout of thesombrero.Not the least in admiration is Robert Tresillian himself: his heart swells with pride at the gallant bearing of the boy, his own son, worthy of the ancestral name; and when Don Estevan turns to him to ask whether he objects to the proposal, it is to receive answer:“On the contrary, I approve of it. Foot messengers might not reach in time, if at all. My brave boy will do it if it can be done; it may be the means of bringing rescue to us all. If he fail, then I, like the rest of you, must submit to fate.”“I’ll not fail,” cries the impetuous youth, rushing forward and throwing his arms round his father. “Fear not. I have a belief that God’s hand is in it, else why should my noble horse have stayed? Why is he still there?”“Virgen santissima!” exclaims Don Estevan in devout tone. “It would even seem so. Let us hope and pray that the Almighty’s hand is in it. If so, we shall be saved.”Henry Tresillian is the hero of the hour, though he has been a favourite with the people of the caravan all along, doing kind offices to this one and that one, helping all who needed help. But now, when they hear he has volunteered on this dangerous service, as it were offering up his life for theirs, encomiums are loud on all sides. Women fall upon their knees, and, with crucifix in hand, offer up prayers for his protection. But Gertrude? Oh, the sad thoughts—the utter woe that strikes through her heart—when she hears tidings of what is intended! She receives them with a wild cry, almost a shriek, with arms outstretched staggering to the side of her mother for support.“Mamma, father must not let him go. He will be lost, and then—then—”“Have no fear. Think,hija mia, we may all be lost if he do not.”“But why cannot some other go in his place? There are many who know the way as well as he, and that bravegambusino, I’m sure, would be willing.”“No doubt he would, dearest; there’s some reason against it I do not quite understand. We shall hear all soon, when father returns to the tent.”They do hear the reason; but not any the more to reconcile Gertrude. The young girl is half beside herself with grief, utterly indifferent as to who may observe it. The bud of her love has bloomed into a flower, and she recks not that all the world know her heart is Henry Tresillian’s. The cousin left behind at Arispe, supposed to be an aspirant to her hand, is forgotten. All are forgotten, save the one now near, so soon to be cruelly torn away from her. Neither the presence of her father and mother, nor that of his father, restrain her in her wild ravings. She knows she has their approval of her partiality, and her young heart, innocent of guile, yields to nature’s promptings.Her appeals are in vain: what must be must be, and she at length resigns herself to the inevitable. For Henry himself tells her how it is, and that no one possibly could take his place.It is in dialogue between them, just as the twilight begins to cast its purple shadows over the plain. For the time is drawing nigh for action, and the two have gone apart from the camp to speak the last words of leave-taking. They stand under a tree, hands clasped, gazing into each other’s eyes, those of the young girl full of tears.“Querida” he says, “do not weep. ’Twill be all well yet—I feel sure of it.”“Would that I could feel so, Henrique; but, oh! dearest, such danger! And if the cruel savages capture you.Ay Dios! to think of what they did with the others!”“Let them catch me if they can. They never will if I once get alongside Crusader. On his back I may defy them.”“True, I believe it. But are you sure of getting upon his back? In the darkness you may not find him.”“If not, it will be but to return to the cliff and be drawn up again.”This assurance somewhat tranquillises her. There is at least the hope, almost certainty, he will not, as the others, be sacrificed to a fruitless attempt; and, so trusting, she says in conclusion: “Go, then,querido mio. I will no more oppose it, but pray all night long for your safety. I see now it is for the best, and feel that the blessed Mary, mother of God, will listen to my prayers.”No longer hands clasped, but arms entwined, and lips meeting in a kiss of pure holy affection, sanctified by parental consent. Then they return to the camp, where the final preparations are being made for that venture upon which so much depends.
Another day dawns, and as the earliest rays of the sun light up the Cerro Perdido, an unusual bustle is observed in the camp of the besieged. Men are busy collecting the leaves of themezcal-plant, those that are withered and dry from having their corms cut out days before; fortunately there are many of these lying all around. Other men, armed with rudely-shaped mallets, beat them against the trunks of trees, to separate the fibre from the now desiccated pulp; while still others are twisting this into threads, by a further process to be converted into thick ropes.
It is found that after all not so much will be needed; several lassoes had been brought up, tied round the bundles of goods; and with these and other odds and ends of cordage, a rope can be put together full two hundred feet in length, strong enough to sustain the weight of any man. So, long before night the lowering apparatus is ready, and, as before, they await the darkness to make use of it.
Meanwhile Don Estevan, the two Tresillians, and Vicente spend most of the morning on the cliff where the bighorn went over, surveying it from every possible point, taking the bearings of its ledges, and estimating their distances from one another. They are, as thegambusinohad represented them, a succession of very narrow benches, but wide enough for a man to find footing; some horizontal, others with a slope downwards, then a zigzag bringing them lower, till within a hundred feet from the cliff’s base thefaçadeof rocks shows sheer and clear. Down to this point all will be easy; and beyond it they anticipate little difficulty, now that they are sure of having sufficient rope.
While engaged in their reconnaissance, an object comes under their eyes which they gaze upon with interest. They are upon the western side of themesanot far above its southern point, the plain on that side being invisible from the camp of the besiegers; and on this, at the distance of a mile or more, there is a spot of pasture due to a tiny rivulet, which, filtering off from the side of the lake, becomes dispersed over a considerable surface, which it moistens and makes green.
Moving to and fro over this verdant stretch is the object which has caught their attention—a horse of large size and coal-black colour, which they know to be no other than Crusader. They are not surprised at seeing him there. Habitually he frequents this spot, which has become his accustomed pasturing-ground, and more than once had Henry Tresillian stood on that cliff regarding him with fond affectionate gaze; more than once, too, had the Indians again gone in chase of him, to be foiled as before. There is he still unlassoed, free of limb as the antelopes seen flitting over thellanoaround him.
After completing the examination of their precipice, and noting all details that may be needed to help out their design, they stand for a time gazing at the horse, his young master with a thought in his mind which he withholds from the others. Nor does he communicate it to them till after their return to the camp, and the question comes up, who are the ones to be lowered down; for it is thought better that two messengers should be sent, as company and support to each other. That is the question to be decided, and up to this hour all expect it to be as before—by lottery.
In fine, when the time arrives for settling it, and the eligible ones are again assembled for drawing lots, a proposal is made which takes every one present by surprise. It comes from the youngest of the party, Henry Tresillian, who says:
“Let me go alone.”
All eyes turn upon him inquiringly and in wonder, none more than those of his father, who exclaims:
“You go alone, my son! Why do you propose that?”
“Because it will be best, father.”
“How best? I do not understand you.”
“Crusader can only carry one.”
“Ah! Crusader—that’s what you’re thinking of?”
“Por Dios!” exclaims the senior partner, “I see what your son means, Don Roberto; his idea is admirable!”
“Yes,” says the English youth in answer to his father; “I’ve been thinking of it ever since yesterday. On Crusader’s back I can be at Arispe days before any foot messenger could arrive there. Once I had him between my legs, no fear of Indians overtaking me.”
“The very thing!” cries Don Estevan, delighted. “But, Señor Henrique, are you sure you can catch the horse?”
“Catch him! he will come to my call. Once on the plain, and within hearing of my voice, I’ve no fear of his soon being by my side.”
“But why not let me take him?” puts in Pedro Vicente, as if to spare the generous youth from undertaking such a risk. “I know the road better than you,muchacho.”
“That may be,” returns the other. “But I know it well enough. Besides, Crusader will let no one catch him but myself—much less ride him.”
During all this conversation the bystanders regard the young Englishman with looks of admiration. Never before have they seen so much courage combined with intelligence. And all to be exerted in their favour; for they have not forgotten the fate of their two comrades, put to death in such a cruel fashion. Every one of them fears that the like may befall himself, should it be his ill luck to draw a blackpinonout of thesombrero.
Not the least in admiration is Robert Tresillian himself: his heart swells with pride at the gallant bearing of the boy, his own son, worthy of the ancestral name; and when Don Estevan turns to him to ask whether he objects to the proposal, it is to receive answer:
“On the contrary, I approve of it. Foot messengers might not reach in time, if at all. My brave boy will do it if it can be done; it may be the means of bringing rescue to us all. If he fail, then I, like the rest of you, must submit to fate.”
“I’ll not fail,” cries the impetuous youth, rushing forward and throwing his arms round his father. “Fear not. I have a belief that God’s hand is in it, else why should my noble horse have stayed? Why is he still there?”
“Virgen santissima!” exclaims Don Estevan in devout tone. “It would even seem so. Let us hope and pray that the Almighty’s hand is in it. If so, we shall be saved.”
Henry Tresillian is the hero of the hour, though he has been a favourite with the people of the caravan all along, doing kind offices to this one and that one, helping all who needed help. But now, when they hear he has volunteered on this dangerous service, as it were offering up his life for theirs, encomiums are loud on all sides. Women fall upon their knees, and, with crucifix in hand, offer up prayers for his protection. But Gertrude? Oh, the sad thoughts—the utter woe that strikes through her heart—when she hears tidings of what is intended! She receives them with a wild cry, almost a shriek, with arms outstretched staggering to the side of her mother for support.
“Mamma, father must not let him go. He will be lost, and then—then—”
“Have no fear. Think,hija mia, we may all be lost if he do not.”
“But why cannot some other go in his place? There are many who know the way as well as he, and that bravegambusino, I’m sure, would be willing.”
“No doubt he would, dearest; there’s some reason against it I do not quite understand. We shall hear all soon, when father returns to the tent.”
They do hear the reason; but not any the more to reconcile Gertrude. The young girl is half beside herself with grief, utterly indifferent as to who may observe it. The bud of her love has bloomed into a flower, and she recks not that all the world know her heart is Henry Tresillian’s. The cousin left behind at Arispe, supposed to be an aspirant to her hand, is forgotten. All are forgotten, save the one now near, so soon to be cruelly torn away from her. Neither the presence of her father and mother, nor that of his father, restrain her in her wild ravings. She knows she has their approval of her partiality, and her young heart, innocent of guile, yields to nature’s promptings.
Her appeals are in vain: what must be must be, and she at length resigns herself to the inevitable. For Henry himself tells her how it is, and that no one possibly could take his place.
It is in dialogue between them, just as the twilight begins to cast its purple shadows over the plain. For the time is drawing nigh for action, and the two have gone apart from the camp to speak the last words of leave-taking. They stand under a tree, hands clasped, gazing into each other’s eyes, those of the young girl full of tears.
“Querida” he says, “do not weep. ’Twill be all well yet—I feel sure of it.”
“Would that I could feel so, Henrique; but, oh! dearest, such danger! And if the cruel savages capture you.Ay Dios! to think of what they did with the others!”
“Let them catch me if they can. They never will if I once get alongside Crusader. On his back I may defy them.”
“True, I believe it. But are you sure of getting upon his back? In the darkness you may not find him.”
“If not, it will be but to return to the cliff and be drawn up again.”
This assurance somewhat tranquillises her. There is at least the hope, almost certainty, he will not, as the others, be sacrificed to a fruitless attempt; and, so trusting, she says in conclusion: “Go, then,querido mio. I will no more oppose it, but pray all night long for your safety. I see now it is for the best, and feel that the blessed Mary, mother of God, will listen to my prayers.”
No longer hands clasped, but arms entwined, and lips meeting in a kiss of pure holy affection, sanctified by parental consent. Then they return to the camp, where the final preparations are being made for that venture upon which so much depends.
Chapter Twenty Three.A Ride in Mid-Air.It turns out just such a night as was wished for—moonless, still not obscurely dark. Too much darkness would defeat the end in view. They need light for the lowering down, a thing that will take some time with careful management.But the miners are the very men for such purpose. Not one of them who has not dangled at a rope’s end in a shaft hundreds of feet sheer down into the earth. To them it is habitude—child’s play—as to him who spends his life scaling sea-coast cliffs for the eggs and young of birds.It is yet early when the party entrusted with the undertaking assemble on the edge of the precipice, at the point where the daring adventurer is to make descent. Some carry coils of rope, others long poles notched at the end for fending the line off the rocks, while thegambusinois seen bearing a burden which differs from all the rest. A saddle and bridle it is; his own, cherished for their costliness, but now placed at the service of his young friend, to do what he will with them.“I could ride Crusader without them,” says the English youth: “guide him with my voice and knees; but these will make it surer, and I thank you, Señor Vicente.”“Ah,muchacho! if they but help you, how glad ’twill make me feel! If they’re lost, it wouldn’t be for that I’d grudge the twentydoblonesthe saddle cost me. I’d give ten times as much to see you seated in it on theplazaof Arispe.”“I’ll be there,amigo, in less than sixty hours if Crusader hasn’t lost his strength by too long feeding on grass.”“I fancy you need not fear that, señorito; your horse is one that nothing seems to affect. I still cling to the belief he’s the devil himself.”“Better believe him an angel—our good angel now, as I hope he will prove himself.”This exchange of speech between the two who have long beencompagnons de chasse, is only an interlude occurring while the ropes are being uncoiled and made ready.Instead of a loop to be passed around the adventurer’s body, a very different mode for his making descent has been pre-arranged. He is to take seat in the saddle, just as though it were on the back of a horse, and, with feet in the stirrups and hands clutching the cords that suspend it, be so let down. A piece of wood passed under the tree, and firmly lashed to pommel and cantle, will secure its equilibrium.Finally all is ready, and, the daring rider taking his seat, is soon swinging in mid-air. Hand over hand they lower him down, slowly, cautiously, listening all the while for a signal to be sent up. This they get in due time—a low whistle telling them that he has reached the first ledge, though they could tell it by the strain upon the rope all at once having ceased.Up it is drawn again, its owner himself, in turn, taking seat in it, to be lowered down as the other. Then again and again it is hoisted up and let down, till half a score of the miners, stalwart men, Robert Tresillian among them, stand on the bench below.Now the saddle is detached and fastened on to another rope, when the same process is repeated; and so on, advantage being taken of the sloping ledges, till the last is arrived at.Here it is but a repetition of what has gone before, only with a longer reach of rope; and here Pedro Vicente takes last leave of the youth who has become so endeared to him.In the eye of thehonest gambusinothere is that not often seen there, a tear. He flings his arms around the English youth, exclaiming:“Dios te guarda, muchacho valiente! (God guard you, my brave lad).”The parting between the two is almost as affectionate as that between Henry and his father, the last saying, as he enfolds his son in his arms:“God go with you, my noble boy!” In another moment the daring youth is once more in the saddle, going down, down, till he feels his feet upon the plain. Then stepping out of it, and sending up the preconcerted signal, he detaches saddle and bridle from the cords, leaving the latter to swing free.Shouldering the horse gear with otherimpedimenta, he looks round to get his bearings, and, soon as satisfied about these, starts off over the plain in search of Crusader.He is not the only one at that moment making to find the horse. From the Indian camp a picked party has issued forth, urged by the chief. For the new leader of the Coyoteros longs to possess that now famous steed as much as did the deceased one.“Ten of my best mustangs, and as many of my mules, will I give for the black horse of the paleface. He who captures him may claim that reward.”More than once has El Zopilote thus declared himself, exciting the ardour and cupidity of his followers. Withal they have chased Crusader in vain, over and over again, till in their superstitious fancy they begin to think him a phantom.But as yet they have never tried to take him by night; and now, having ascertained the place where he usually passes the nocturnal hours, they start out in quest of him.Not rashly nor incautiously; instead, they proceed deliberately, and with a preconceived plan, as though stalking game. Their intention is first to enfilade the animal at long distance off, then contract the circle, so as to have him sure.In execution of their scheme, on reaching the western side of the lake, they divide into two parties. One moves along the mountain’s foot, dropping a file here and there; the other strikes out over thellano, in a circular line, as it proceeds doing the same.It is too dark for them to see horse or other object at any great distance, so they take care that their circle be wide enough to embrace the stretch of pasture where the coveted animal is known to browse.Noiselessly they execute the movement, going at a slow walk, lest the hoof-strokes of their horses may alarm the one they would enclose; and when the heads of the separated parties again come together, all know it by a signal agreed upon—the cry of the coyote transmitted along their line admonishes them that the cordon is complete.
It turns out just such a night as was wished for—moonless, still not obscurely dark. Too much darkness would defeat the end in view. They need light for the lowering down, a thing that will take some time with careful management.
But the miners are the very men for such purpose. Not one of them who has not dangled at a rope’s end in a shaft hundreds of feet sheer down into the earth. To them it is habitude—child’s play—as to him who spends his life scaling sea-coast cliffs for the eggs and young of birds.
It is yet early when the party entrusted with the undertaking assemble on the edge of the precipice, at the point where the daring adventurer is to make descent. Some carry coils of rope, others long poles notched at the end for fending the line off the rocks, while thegambusinois seen bearing a burden which differs from all the rest. A saddle and bridle it is; his own, cherished for their costliness, but now placed at the service of his young friend, to do what he will with them.
“I could ride Crusader without them,” says the English youth: “guide him with my voice and knees; but these will make it surer, and I thank you, Señor Vicente.”
“Ah,muchacho! if they but help you, how glad ’twill make me feel! If they’re lost, it wouldn’t be for that I’d grudge the twentydoblonesthe saddle cost me. I’d give ten times as much to see you seated in it on theplazaof Arispe.”
“I’ll be there,amigo, in less than sixty hours if Crusader hasn’t lost his strength by too long feeding on grass.”
“I fancy you need not fear that, señorito; your horse is one that nothing seems to affect. I still cling to the belief he’s the devil himself.”
“Better believe him an angel—our good angel now, as I hope he will prove himself.”
This exchange of speech between the two who have long beencompagnons de chasse, is only an interlude occurring while the ropes are being uncoiled and made ready.
Instead of a loop to be passed around the adventurer’s body, a very different mode for his making descent has been pre-arranged. He is to take seat in the saddle, just as though it were on the back of a horse, and, with feet in the stirrups and hands clutching the cords that suspend it, be so let down. A piece of wood passed under the tree, and firmly lashed to pommel and cantle, will secure its equilibrium.
Finally all is ready, and, the daring rider taking his seat, is soon swinging in mid-air. Hand over hand they lower him down, slowly, cautiously, listening all the while for a signal to be sent up. This they get in due time—a low whistle telling them that he has reached the first ledge, though they could tell it by the strain upon the rope all at once having ceased.
Up it is drawn again, its owner himself, in turn, taking seat in it, to be lowered down as the other. Then again and again it is hoisted up and let down, till half a score of the miners, stalwart men, Robert Tresillian among them, stand on the bench below.
Now the saddle is detached and fastened on to another rope, when the same process is repeated; and so on, advantage being taken of the sloping ledges, till the last is arrived at.
Here it is but a repetition of what has gone before, only with a longer reach of rope; and here Pedro Vicente takes last leave of the youth who has become so endeared to him.
In the eye of thehonest gambusinothere is that not often seen there, a tear. He flings his arms around the English youth, exclaiming:
“Dios te guarda, muchacho valiente! (God guard you, my brave lad).”
The parting between the two is almost as affectionate as that between Henry and his father, the last saying, as he enfolds his son in his arms:
“God go with you, my noble boy!” In another moment the daring youth is once more in the saddle, going down, down, till he feels his feet upon the plain. Then stepping out of it, and sending up the preconcerted signal, he detaches saddle and bridle from the cords, leaving the latter to swing free.
Shouldering the horse gear with otherimpedimenta, he looks round to get his bearings, and, soon as satisfied about these, starts off over the plain in search of Crusader.
He is not the only one at that moment making to find the horse. From the Indian camp a picked party has issued forth, urged by the chief. For the new leader of the Coyoteros longs to possess that now famous steed as much as did the deceased one.
“Ten of my best mustangs, and as many of my mules, will I give for the black horse of the paleface. He who captures him may claim that reward.”
More than once has El Zopilote thus declared himself, exciting the ardour and cupidity of his followers. Withal they have chased Crusader in vain, over and over again, till in their superstitious fancy they begin to think him a phantom.
But as yet they have never tried to take him by night; and now, having ascertained the place where he usually passes the nocturnal hours, they start out in quest of him.
Not rashly nor incautiously; instead, they proceed deliberately, and with a preconceived plan, as though stalking game. Their intention is first to enfilade the animal at long distance off, then contract the circle, so as to have him sure.
In execution of their scheme, on reaching the western side of the lake, they divide into two parties. One moves along the mountain’s foot, dropping a file here and there; the other strikes out over thellano, in a circular line, as it proceeds doing the same.
It is too dark for them to see horse or other object at any great distance, so they take care that their circle be wide enough to embrace the stretch of pasture where the coveted animal is known to browse.
Noiselessly they execute the movement, going at a slow walk, lest the hoof-strokes of their horses may alarm the one they would enclose; and when the heads of the separated parties again come together, all know it by a signal agreed upon—the cry of the coyote transmitted along their line admonishes them that the cordon is complete.