The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora

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 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 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 façade of 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 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 unlassoed, 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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.”