The Lost Mountain Part 13

"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 brave _gambusino_, 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 a.s.surance 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.semble 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 the _gambusino_ is 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, Senor 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 twenty _doblones_ the saddle cost me. I'd give ten times as much to see you seated in it on the _plaza_ of Arispe."

"I'll be there, _amigo_, in less than sixty hours if Crusader hasn't lost his strength by too long feeding on gra.s.s."

"I fancy you need not fear that, senorito; 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 been _compagnons de cha.s.se_, is only an interlude occurring while the ropes are being uncoiled and made ready.

Instead of a loop to be pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 repet.i.tion 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 the _honest gambusino_ there is that not often seen there, a tear. He flings his arms around the English youth, exclaiming:

"_Dios te guarda, muchacho valiente_! (G.o.d 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:

"G.o.d go with you, my n.o.ble 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 other _impedimenta_, 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 superst.i.tious 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 pa.s.ses 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 the _llano_, 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ONCE MORE UPON CRUSADER.

Henry Tresillian has hardly advanced a hundred yards from the cliff, when the Indian party, turning northward, pa.s.ses close to the spot where he had been let down. Luckily not so close as to observe the rope still hanging there, and far enough from himself to hinder their seeing him.

For the obscurity makes it impossible to distinguish objects unless very near.