The Lost Mountain Part 5

All know to what Vicente alludes: a ma.s.sacre of Apache Indians by a party of Mexican soldiers, after being lured and lulled into false security by professions of peace--cold-blooded and cruel, as any recorded in the annals of frontier warfare.

"I've said it. I'm good as sure they're Apaches," repeats the _gambusino_, more impressively. "And it would be madness, sheer insanity, to await them here. We must up to the _mesa_."

"But will we be safe there?"

"As in a citadel. No fortress ever contrived, or made by hand of man, is strong as the Cerro Perdido. Twenty men could hold it against as many hundreds--ay, thousands. _Carramba_! We may thank the Virgin for providing us with such a secure retreat; so handy, and just in the nick of time."

"Then let us to it," a.s.sents Don Estevan, after a brief consultation with his partner, who no longer opposes the step, though by it they may lose their all. "We'll follow your advice, Senor Vicente; and you have our authority to order everything as it seems best to you."

"I've only one order to give, your wors.h.i.+ps; that's _arriba_! Up, all and everybody!"

CHAPTER EIGHT.

TENDER LEAVE-TAKINGS.

The excitement in the camp, already at full height, now changes to a quick, confused hurrying to and fro, accompanied by cries of many kinds.

Here and there is heard the terrified scream of a woman, who, babe in arms, fancies the spear of a savage pointed at her breast, to impale herself and offspring.

There is a rush for the gorge, up which a stream of human forms is soon seen swarming as ants up their hill. And, with a gallantry which distinguishes the miner as the mariner, the women and children are permitted foremost place in the upward retreat, a.s.sisted by husbands.

Without serious accident all succeed in reaching the summit, where the women are left, the men who went with them hurrying back below. It is hard to part with valuable property and cherished household G.o.ds--still harder to see these appropriated by a hated enemy--and an effort is to be made for saving what can be saved. At first they only thought of their lives; but half a dozen men, who had sprung to their horses at the earliest moment of alarm, and galloped out beyond the mountain's flank to get better view, signal back that the Indians are not yet in sight.

So there is still a chance to take up a portion of the camp equipage, with such goods as are likely to be most needed in the event of their having to sustain a siege.

"The ammunition and provender first!" shouts Vicente, back again at camp, with full authority of direction. "Take up everything that's food for man and loading for gun. After that whatever we'll have time for."

Knowing their women now safe, the men work with spirit; and soon a different sort of stream is seen ascending the gorge: a string of burden-bearers, continuous from plain to summit; hastily returning down again, relieved of their loads, to take up others. Never were bees so busy. Some remain below, getting the goods out of the wagons, and making packages of them, convenient for the difficult transport. The bales and boxes--lading of the pack-mules--are broken open, and their more valuable effects picked out and carried off; so that in a short s.p.a.ce of time not much remains save the mining tools and machinery, with the heavier articles of house furniture.

Could the Rattlesnake have known of this quick precautionary sacking of the camp by its owners, he and his would have approached it in greater haste. But they are seen coming on now. The mounted videttes have at length signalled them in sight, they themselves galloping in at the same time, and dropping down from their horses.

There is a last gathering up of bundles, which includes the two smaller tents--the marquee left standing. Then the final _debandade_; all turning face towards the gorge, and toiling up it.

No, not all as yet; more than one lingers below. For the horses must needs be left behind; impossible to take them up a steep where only goat, sheep, or clawed creature might go. And more than one has a master who parts with it reluctantly. Regretfully, too, at thought of its changing owner, and to such owner as will soon enter upon possession. Even some of the teamsters and muleteers have an affection for their mules, the head _arriero_ regarding the whole _atajo_ as his children, and the "bell-mare" almost as a mother. Many a long mile and league has he listened to her guiding bell; its cheerful tinkle proclaiming the route clear along narrow dizzy ledge, or through deep defile. And now he will hear its music no more.

But the ties must be severed, the parting take place. Which it does, amidst phrases and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of leave-taking, tender as though the left ones were human beings instead of dumb brutes. "_Caballo-- caballito querido_!" "_Mula-mulita mia_!" "_Pobre-pobrecita_! _Dios te guarda_!" And mingled with these are exclamations of a less gentle kind--anathemas hurled at the redskins coming on to take possession of their pets.

At this last Pedro Vicente is among the loudest. As yet he has had only half-payment for his late discovered mine, the remaining moiety dependent on the working it. And now the crash--all the mining apparatus to be destroyed--perhaps the purchasing firm made bankrupt, if even life be left them. Thinking of all this, and what he has already suffered at the hands of "_Los Indios_" no wonder at his cursing them.

He, however, is not one of those taking affectionate and sentimental farewell of their animals. His horse is a late purchase, and though of fine appearance, has proved aught but a bargain. For there are "copers"

in Arispe as elsewhere, and the _gambusino_ has been their victim.

Hence he parts with the disappointing steed neither regretfully nor reluctantly. But not with the saddle and bridle; these, of elaborate adornment having cost him far more than the horse. So shouldering them, he too re-ascends, last of all save one.

That one is Henry Tresillian; and very different is the parting between him and the animal of his belonging. The English youth almost sheds tears as he stands by his horse's head, patting his neck and stroking his muzzle, the last time he may ever lay hand on either. Nay, surely, too surely, the last. And the n.o.ble creature seems to know it too, responding to the caress by a low mournful whimpering.

"Ah! my beautiful Crusader! to think I must leave you behind! And to be ridden by a redskin--a cruel savage who will take no care of you. Oh!

it is hard--hard!"

Crusader appears to comprehend what is said, for his answer is something like a moan. It may be that he interprets the melancholy expression on his master's face--that master who has been so kind to him.

"A last farewell, brave fellow! Be it a kiss," says the youth, bringing his lips in contact with those of the horse. Then pulling off the headstall, with its attached trail-rope, and letting them drop to the ground, he again speaks the sad word "farewell," and, turning back on his beloved steed, walks hurriedly and determinedly away, as though fearing resolution might fail him.

Soon he commences climbing up the gorge; all the others who have gone before now nearly out of it. But ere he has ascended ten steps, he hears that behind which causes him to stop and look back. Not in alarm: he knows it to be the neigh of his own horse, accompanied by the stroke of his hoofs in quick repet.i.tion--Crusader coming on in a gallop for the gorge. In another instant he is by its bottom, on hind legs, rearing up against the rocky steep, as if determined to scale it.

In vain: after an effort he drops back on all fours. But to rear up and try again and again, all the while giving utterance to wild, agonised neighs--very screams.

To Henry Tresillian the sight is saddening, the sound torture, stirring his heart to its deepest depths. To escape the seeing--though he cannot so soon the hearing--he once more turns his back upon the horse, and hastens on upward. But when halfway to the head, he cannot resist taking another downward look. Which shows him Crusader yet by the bottom of the gorge, but now standing still on all fours, as if resigned to the inevitable. Not silent, however; instead, at short intervals, giving utterance to that neigh of melancholy cadence, alike proclaiming discomfiture and despair.

CHAPTER NINE.

"IT'S THE RATTLESNAKE."

On again reaching the summit Henry Tresillian finds his father there with Don Estevan and most of the men. These last, under the direction of the _ci-devant_ soldier, are collecting large stones, and laying them all round the head of the gorge.

One might fancy them building a breastwork, but nothing of that kind is their intention, none such being needed. As Vicente had said, it is a fortress of nature's construction, stronger than any ever built by the hand of man, and would defy breaching by all the artillery in the world.

Ammunition is what the stones are being collected for, to be rolled down the slope in case the enemy should attempt scaling it. Most of them have to be brought up out of the gorge itself, as but few lie loose on the summit. A work that, with so many and willing hands, takes up but short time, and soon a ridge appears in horseshoe shape around the spot where the path leads out upon the level.

Others of the men have gone on to the glade by the spring, where the women and children are now a.s.sembled, the effects brought up from below lying scattered about them. Some, still in affright, are moving excitedly to and fro; others, with greater courage and calmness, have taken seats on the boxes and bundles.

The senora and her daughter, with the family servants, form a group apart, the eyes of Gertrude scanning with anxious interrogative glance each new party as it appears on the edge of the opening. She has been told that Henrique is still upon the plain, and fears he may linger there too long.

As yet no move has been made to set up the tents, or otherwise establish camp. There are some who cling to the hope that after all it may not be necessary. The Indians have not yet shown themselves at the southern end, and nothing is known of their character save by conjecture. As that is based on but a distant view of them, it is little reliable; and the guide is directed by Don Estevan to hasten north again, and see what can be seen further.

This time he takes the telescope with him, and signals are arranged before starting. Gun signals, of course: a single shot to say the Indians are still advancing towards the Cerro; two, that they are near; a third, denoting their character made out; while a fourth will proclaim them _bravos_, and of some hostile tribe.

By this it might appear as if the _gambusino_ bore upon his person a very battery of small arms; while in reality he has only his rifle, with a pair of single-barrelled pistols of ancient fas.h.i.+on and doubtful fire.

But, as before, he is to be accompanied by Henry Tresillian, whose double gun will make good any deficiency in the signal shots--should all four be needed.

This settled, off the two go again on their old track, first pa.s.sing through the glade by the _ojo de agua_. There the English youth tarries a moment--only a brief one--to exchange a word with the senora, and a tender glance with Gertrude, whose eyes follow him no longer in fear, but now all admiration. She has been told of the strange parting between him and his favourite steed--her favourite as well--and the fearlessness he displayed, staying down upon the plain after all the others had left it.

"Such courage!" she mentally exclaims, as she sees him dash on after the guide. "_Dios mio_! he dare do anything."

Proceeding at a run, in less than fifteen minutes' time the videttes arrive at their former place of observation on the projecting point of the cliff; and without delay Vicente lengthens out the telescope, raising it to his eye. To see, at first view, what justifies their sounding the first and second signals: the savages still coming on for the Cerro, and now near!

"Fire off both your barrels!" he directs on the instant; and, without lowering the gla.s.s, "Allow a little time between, that our people mayn't mistake it for a single shot."

The English youth, elevating the muzzle of his gun, presses the front trigger, and then, after an interval, the back one, and the shots in succession go reverberating along the cliff in echo upon echo.

Scarce have these died away when the Mexican again speaks, this time not only to say the other two signals are to be given, but with words and in tone telling of even more. "_Carramba_!" he cries out, "just as I expected, and worse! Apaches, and the cruellest, most hostile of all, Coyoteros! Quick, _muchacho_!" he continues, still keeping the telescope to his eye, "pull the pistols out of my belt and fire off both."

Again two loud cracks, with a few seconds of time between, resound along the cliff, while the dusky hors.e.m.e.n, now near enough for their individual forms to be distinguishable by the naked eye, are seen to have come to a halt, seated on their horses and gazing upward. But through the gla.s.s Vicente sees more, which still further excites him.

"_Por todos demonios esta El Cascabel_!" (By all the devils it's the Rattlesnake!)

"El Cascabel!" echoes the English youth, less puzzled by the odd name than surprised at the manner of him who has p.r.o.nounced it. "Who is he, Don Pedro?"

"Ah, senorito! you'll find that out too soon--all of us, I fear, to our cost. Yes!" he goes on talking, with the telescope still upheld, "'tis El Cascabel, I can make out the death's head on his breast, original pattern of that on my own. He and his made the copy, the brutes burning it into my flesh in sheer wanton mockery. _Malraya_! we're in for it now; a siege till the crack of doom, or till all of us are starved dead.

No hope of escaping it."