The Lost Mountain Part 4

LOS INDIOS!

Parting from the despised carcase of the ram the hunters press onward, the younger with mental resolve to return to it, come back what way they will. Its grand spiral horns have caught his fancy: such a pair would grace any hall in Christendom; and, though he cannot call the trophy his own, since it fell not to his gun, he intends appropriating it.

Only for a brief moment does the young Englishman reflect about them; in the next they are out of his mind. For, glancing at the Mexican's face, he again sees that look of anxious uneasiness noted before. It had returned soon as the exciting incident of the sheep-shooting was over.

And knowing the cause, he shares it; no more thinking about the chase or its trophies.

They say but little now, having sufficient work to occupy them without wasting time in words. For beyond the opening where the _carneros_ were encountered, they find no path--not so much as a trace made by animals-- and have to make one for themselves. As the trees stand close, with _lianas_ interlacing, the Mexican is often compelled to use his _machete_ for hewing out a pa.s.sage-way; which he does with an accompaniment of _carrambas_! thick as the underwood he chops at.

Thus impeded, they are nearly an hour in getting through the _chapparal_, though the distance pa.s.sed is less than the half of a mile.

But at length they accomplish it, arriving on the _mesas_ outer edge, close to that of the cliff. There the tall timber ends in a skirting of low bushes, and their view is no longer obstructed. North, east, and west the _llano_ is under their eyes to the horizon's verge, twenty miles at least being within the scope of their vision.

They aim not to scan it so far. For at a distance of little more than ten they observe that which at once fixes their glance: a dun yellowish disc--a cloud--with its base resting upon the plain.

"Smoke, no--but dust!" exclaims the _gambusino_, soon as sighting it; "and kicked up by the heels of horses--hundreds of them. There can be nothing else out there to cause that. Horses with men on their backs.

If a _caballada_ of wild mustangs, the dust would show more scattered.

_Indios, por cierto! Carra-i_!" he says in continuation, the shade on his brow sensibly darkening, as with a quick glance over his shoulder he sees real smoke in that direction. "What fools we've been to kindle fires! Rank madness. Better to have eaten breakfast raw. I myself most to blame of any; I should have known the danger. By this they'll have spied our camp smoke--that of our shots, too. Ah, _muchacho_!

we've been foolish in every way."

Almost breathless from this burst of regret and self-recrimination, he is for a while silent; his heart beating audibly, however, as with gaze fixed on the far-off cloud, he endeavours to interpret it. But the dark cloud soon becomes less dense, partially dispersed, and under it appears something more solid; a clump of sombre hue, but with here and there sparkling points. No separate forms can as yet be made out; only a ma.s.s; but for all that, the _gambusino_ knows it to be composed of horses and men, the corruscations being the glint of arms and accoutrements, as the sun penetrates through to them.

"What a pity," he exclaims, resuming speech, "I didn't think of asking Don Estevan for the loan of his telescope! If we only had it here now!

But I can see enough without it; 'tis as I feared. No more hunting for us to-day; but fighting ere the sun goes down--perhaps ere it reach meridian. _Mira_! the thing's splitting into two. You see, senorito?"

The senorito does see that the dust-cloud has parted in twain, as also the dark ma.s.s underneath. And now they can distinguish separate forms; horses with men on their backs, and a more conspicuous glittering of arms, because of their being in motion.

"Ah, yes!" adds the Mexican, with increased gravity of tone, "_Indios bravos_ they are, hundreds of them. If Apaches, as sure they must, Heaven help us all! I know what they mean by that movement. They've sighted the camp smoke, and intend coming on along both sides of the Cerro. That's why they've broken into two bands. Back to camp, as fast as our legs can carry us! We've not a minute--not a second--to lose.

_Vamos_!"

And back for camp they start, not to spend time on the way as when coming from it, but in a run and rush along the path already opened-- past the dead sheep, past the spring, and the strung-up turkeys, without even staying to look at these, much less think of taking them along.

The occupants of the miners' camp, men, women, and children, are up and active now. Some are at work about the wagons, pouring water over their wheels to tighten the tyres, loose from the shrinking of the wood; others have set to mending harness and pack-saddles; while still others, out on the open plain, are changing the animals to fresh spots of pasturage. A small party is seen around the carcase of a bullock, in the act of skinning it to get beefsteaks for breakfast.

Several fires have been kindled, for the people are many, and have separate messes, according to rank and vocation. Around these are the women and grown girls, some bending over red earthenware pots that contain chocolate and coffee, others on their knees with the _metate_ stone in front, and _metlapilla_ in hand, crus.h.i.+ng the boiled maize into paste for the indispensable _tortillas_. The children play by the lake's edge, wading ankle-deep into the water, plas.h.i.+ng about like little ducks; some of the bigger boys, who have improvised a rude tackle, endeavouring to catch fish. In this remote tarn there are such, as it has an affluent stream connecting it with the Rio Horcasitas--now nearly dry, but at times having a volume of water sufficient for the finny tribes to ascend to the lake, into which several species have found their way.

Within the s.p.a.ce enclosed by the wagons--the _corral_--three tents have been erected, and stand in a row. The middle one is a large square marquee, the two flanking it of the ordinary bell shape. The marquee is occupied by the senior partner and his senora; the one on the right by their daughter and an Indian _moza_--her waiting-maid; the third affords shelter and sleeping quarters for the two Tresillians.

All three are for a time empty, their occupants having stepped out of them. As known, Henry Tresillian has gone up to the summit of the Cerro, and his father is moving about the camp in the company of the _mayor-domo_, with an eye to superintendence of everything; while Don Estevan, his wife, and daughter, have strolled out along the lake's edge to enjoy the refres.h.i.+ng breeze wafted over its water. The three promenaders have but made one turn along the sandy sh.o.r.e, and back again, when they hear a cry which not only alarms them, but all within and around the camp--

"_Los Indios_!"

It has been sent from above--from the head of the ravine; and everybody looks up--all eyes raised simultaneously. To see two men standing on a projecting point of rock, their figures sharply outlined against the blue background of sky; at the same time to recognise them as the _gambusino_ and Henry Tresillian. Only for an instant are these at a stand; only to shout down those terrible words of warning; then both bound into the gorge, and come on at a rush, with risk of breaking their necks.

At its bottom they are met by an excited, clamorous crowd; surrounded and a.s.sailed by a very tempest of interrogations. But to these they vouchsafe no answer beyond that implied in their shout; instead, push on to where Don Estevan and the elder Tresillian, now together, stand awaiting them. The senior partner is the first to speak, addressing himself to Vicente:

"You've seen Indians, Don Pedro? Where?"

"Out upon the _llano_, your wors.h.i.+p--to north-eastward."

"You're sure of it being Indians?"

"Quite sure, senor. We were able to make horses with men on them; the men unlike any with a white skin, but just as those with a red one.

Your wors.h.i.+p can take my word for their being Indians."

"I can, and do. But from what you say, it seems they're still a good way off. How far, think you?"

"Ten miles or more, when we came away from the place where we saw them.

They can't be much nearer yet, as we've not been over ten minutes on the way."

The quick time made by the hunters in return is attested by their breathing; both with nostrils agape and b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaving up and down as runners at the close of a hard-contested race.

"'Tis well they're at such a distance," rejoins Don Estevan. "And lucky your having sighted them before they got nearer."

"Ah! senor, they'll soon be near; for I know they've sighted us--at least the smoke of our camp, and are already making for it. Light hors.e.m.e.n as they don't need long to traverse ten miles--on a plain like this."

"That's true," a.s.sents the _ci-devant_ soldier, with an air of troubled impatience. "What do you advise our doing, Don Pedro?"

"Well, for one thing, your wors.h.i.+p, we mustn't remain here. We must clear out of this camp as soon as possible. In an hour--ay, less--it may be too late."

"Your words want explaining, Don Pedro. I don't comprehend them. Clear out of the camp! But whither are we to go?"

"_Arriba_!" answers the guide, pointing to the gorge, "up yonder."

"But we can't take the animals there. And to carry up our goods there wouldn't be time."

"I know it, your wors.h.i.+p. And glad we may be to get ourselves safe up."

"Then we're to abandon all? Is that what you advise?"

"It is. I'm sorry I can give no better advice. There's no alternative if we wish to live."

"To lose everything," puts in the junior partner, "goods, animals, machinery! That would be a terrible calamity. Surely, Senor Vicente, we can defend the camp; our people are all well armed."

"Impossible, Don Roberto; impossible were they ever so well armed. From what I could make out of the Indian party it numbers hundreds to our tens, sufficient of them to surround us on every side. And even if we could keep them off during daylight, at night they'd crawl close enough to set the camp on fire. Wagons, tilts, every stick and st.i.tch of them are dry as tinder; the very pack-saddles would be ablaze with the first spark that fell on them."

"But how know we that these Indians are hostile? After all, it may be some friendly band; perhaps Opatas?"

"No!" exclaims the _gambusino_ impatiently. "I saw enough to know they're not Opatas, nor _mansos_ of any kind; enough to be sure they're _bravos_, and almost sure, Apaches."

"Apaches!" echo several voices in the surrounding, in tones proclaiming the dread with which this name inspires the heart of every Sonoreno.

Every man present feels a creeping sensation in the skin of his head, as though the scalping-knife were being brandished around it.

"They're coming from the direction where Apaches would come," pursues Vicente. "Besides, they have no baggage; not a woman or child to be seen with them. All men, mounted and armed."

"Indeed, if it be so," rejoins Don Estevan, with brow now darkly shadowed, "we can expect no friends.h.i.+p from them."

"No mercy either!" adds the gold-seeker. "Nor have we a right to expect it, after the treatment they've had at the hands of Captain Gil Perez and his men."