The Lost Mountain Part 12

"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, senores, 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 the _carnero_ went 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 wors.h.i.+p, 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 the _gambusino_ have 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 hasty _debendade_ from their camp below.

"_Por Dios_! your wors.h.i.+p," rejoins the _gambusino_, "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 the _gambusino_. "This!" He starts up from a bundle of dry _mezcal_-leaves on which he has been seated, pus.h.i.+ng 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 the _mesa_ is 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 antic.i.p.ations 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 the _mezcal_-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 la.s.soes 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 the _gambusino_ had 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 the _facade_ of rocks shows sheer and clear. Down to this point all will be easy; and beyond it they antic.i.p.ate 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 the _mesa_ not 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 unla.s.soed, free of limb as the antelopes seen flitting over the _llano_ around 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 a.s.sembled 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, Senor 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 fas.h.i.+on. Every one of them fears that the like may befall himself, should it be his ill luck to draw a black _pinon_ out of the _sombrero_.

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, rus.h.i.+ng forward and throwing his arms round his father. "Fear not. I have a belief that G.o.d's hand is in it, else why should my n.o.ble 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.