The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora

Listening on, with hearts anxiously beating, they hear that strange concatenation of cries, the supposed howling of coyotes, all around the plain. It puzzles them, too; but before they have time to reflect on it a sound better understandable reaches their ears – the neighing of a horse – most of them recognising it as Crusader’s, for most are familiar with its peculiar intonation.

More intently than ever do they listen now, but for a time hear nothing more. Only a brief interval; then arise sounds that excite their apprehension to its keenest – voices of men, in confused clamouring, the accent proclaiming them Indians.

Robert Tresillian, still standing beside the gambusino on the lowest ledge, feels his heart sink within him, as he exclaims: “My poor boy! lost – lost!”

“Wait, señor,” says Vicente, with an effort to appear calm. “That’s not so sure. All’s not lost that’s in danger. If there be a chance of escape your brave son’s the very one to take advantage of it. Oiga! what’s that?”

His question has reference to another chorus of cries heard out on the plain; then a moment’s lull, succeeded by a crashing sound as of two heavy bodies brought into collision. After that a shot, quickly followed by a yell – a groan.

“A pistol!” exclaims the gambusino, “and sure the one Señorito Henrique took with him. I’ll warrant he’s made good use of it.”

The father is too full of anxious thought to make reply; he but listens on with all ears, and heart audibly pulsating.

Next to hear the hoof-strokes of a horse in gallop as if going off; which in a way cheers him: it may be his son escaped.

But then there is more confused clamour, with loud ejaculations – voices raised in vengeance; and after the trampling of other horses, apparently starting in pursuit.

What is to be done now? – draw up the rope, and have themselves drawn up? There seems no reason for their waiting longer. The messenger is either safe off, or has been captured; one way or the other he will not get back there. So they may as well reascend the cliff.

Besides, a thought of their own safety now forces itself upon them. A streak of light along the horizon admonishes them of the uprising moon. Already her precursory rays, reflected over the plain, begin to lighten the obscurity, rendering objects more distinct, and they now make out a dark mass on the llano below, a party of horsemen, moving in the direction of the mesa.

“We’d better pull up, Don Roberto,” says the gambusino; “they’re coming this way, and if they see the rope it will guide their eyes to ourselves, and we’re both lost men. They carry guns, and we’ll be within easy range, not over thirty yards from them. Por Dios! if they sight us we’re undone.”

Don Roberto makes neither protest nor objection. By this his son has either got clear or is captured: in either case, he cannot return to them. And, as his companion, he is keenly sensible to the danger which is now threatening, so signifies assent.

Silently they draw up the rope, and soon as it is all in their hands, signal to those above to hoist them also. First one, making it fast round his body, is pulled up; then the loop is let down, and the other ascends, raised by an invisible power above.

Four are now on the next ledge, and, by like course of proceeding are lifted one after another to that still higher, the sloping benches between helping them in their ascent. All is done noiselessly, cautiously; for the savages are now seen below in dark clump, stationary near the foot of the precipice.

They have reached the last bench, and so far unmolested, begin to think themselves out of danger,

But alas, no! The silence long prevailing is suddenly broken by a rock displaced and rolling down; while at the same moment the treacherous moon, showing over the horizon’s edge, reveals them to the eyes of the Indians.

Then there is a chorus of wild yells, followed by shots – a very fusillade; bullets strike the rocks and break fragments off, while other shots fired in return by those above into the black mass below instantly disperse it.

In the midst of all, the last man is drawn up to the summit, but when landed there, they who draw him up see that the rope’s noose is no longer round a living body, but a corpse, bleeding, riddled with bullets.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Distanced – No Danger Now

Finding himself clear of the Indians, Henry Tresillian’s heart beats high with hope; no mischance happening, he can trust Crusader to keep him clear. And now he turns his thoughts to the direction he should take. But first to that in which he is going, for he has galloped out of the encircling line through the nearest opening that caught his eye.

The foretaste of the moonlight enables him to see where he is – luckily, on the right track. The route to Arispe lies south-eastward, and the lake must be passed at its upper or lower end. The former is the direct route, the other around about; but then there is the Indian camp to be got past, and others of the savages may be up and about. Still the wagon corral is two or three hundred yards from the water’s edge, which may give him a chance to pass between unobserved, and, with unlimited confidence in his horse, he resolves upon risking it.

An error of judgment: he has not taken into account the fracas behind, with the report of his own pistol, and that all this must have been heard by the redskins remaining in camp. It has nevertheless. The consequence being that ere he has got half round the upper end of the lake, he sees the plain in front of him thickly dotted with dark forms – men on horseback – hears them shouting to one another. A glance shows him it is a gauntlet too dangerous to be run. The fleetness of his steed were no surety against gun-shots.

He reins up abruptly, and, with a wrench round, sets head west again, with the design to do what he should have done at first – turn the lake below.

The détour will be much greater now: he has passed a large elbow of it, which must be repassed to get around; but there is no alternative, and, regretting his mistake, he makes along the back track at best speed. Not far before finding further reason to be sorry for his blunder. On that side, too, he sees mounted men directly before him – those he had lately eluded. They are scattered all over the plain, apparently in search of him, some riding towards the lake’s lower end, thinking he has gone that way. But all have their eyes on him now, and place themselves in position to intercept him. His path is beset on every side, the triumphant cries of the Coyoteros proclaiming their confidence that they have him at last – sure to capture or kill him now. And his own heart almost fails him: go which way he will, it must be through a shower of bullets.

Again he reins up, and sits in his saddle undecided. The risk seems equal, but it must be run; there is no help for it.

Ha! yes, there is. A thought has flashed across his brain – a memory. He remembers having seen the camp animals wading the lake through and through; not over belly-deep. Why cannot Crusader?

With quick resolve he sets his horse’s head for the water, and in a second or two after the animal is up to the saddle-girths, plunging lightly as if it were but fetlock-deep.

Another cry from the Indians on both sides – surprise and disappointment mingled; in tones telling of their belief in the supernatural, and come back.

But soon they, too, recall the shallowness of the lake, and see nothing strange in the fugitive attempting to escape across it. So, without loss of time, they again put their horses to speed, making to head him on its eastern shore.

They are as near as can be to succeeding. A close shave it is for the pursued messenger, who, on emerging from the water, sees on either flank horsemen hastening towards him. But he is not dismayed. Before any of them are within shot range he dashes onward; Crusader, with sinews braced by the cool bath, showing speed which ensures him against being overtaken.

He is pursued, nevertheless. The subtle savages know there are chances and mischances. One of the latter may arise in their favour; and hoping it will be so, they continue the chase.

The moon is now up, everything on the level llano distinguishable for miles, and the black horse with his pale-faced rider is still less than twenty lengths ahead; so after him they go, fast as their mustangs can be forced.

Only to find that in brief time the twenty lengths have become doubled, then trebled, till in fine they see that it is fruitless to carry the pursuit further.

With hearts full of anger and chagrin, they give it up. Some apprehension have they as well. El Zopilote is not with them; what will he say on their returning empty-handed? what do? For it is now no mere matter of the catching of a horse; instead, more serious – a courier gone off to bring succour to the besieged.

Down-hearted and dejectedly they turn their horses’ heads, and ride back for Nauchampa-tepetl.

Had the Coyoteros stuck to their faith in the probability of accidents and continued the pursuit, they might have overtaken Henry Tresillian after all. For scarce have they turned backs upon him when a mishap befalls him, not absolutely staying him in his course, but delaying him wellnigh an hour. He is making to regain the road which runs north from Arispe, at the point where the caravan, forced by want of water, had deflected from it to the Cerro Perdido. In daylight he could have ridden straight to it; for since then from the mesas summit Pedro Vicente had pointed to guide-marks indicating the spot where his initials were carved upon the palmida. But in his haste now, amid the glamour of a newly-risen moon, the messenger has gone astray, only discovering it when his horse suddenly staggering forward comes down upon his knees, shooting him out of the saddle.

He is less hurt than surprised. Never before has Crusader made false step or stumble, and why now?

A moment reveals the reason: the ground has given way beneath, letting him down knee-deep into a hole, the burrow of some animal.

Fortunately, there are no bones broken, no damage done either to horse or rider; and the latter, recovering his seat in the saddle, essays to proceed. Soon to be a second time brought to a stand, though not now unhorsed. Crusader but lurches, keeping his legs, though again near going down.

The young Englishman perceives what it is: he is riding through a warren of the kind well known on the plains of Western America as “a prairie-dog town or village.” In the moonlight he sees the hillocks of these marmots all around, with the animals themselves squatting on them; hears their tiny squirrel-like bark, intermingling with the hoot of the quaint little owl which shares their subterranean habitations.

Once more at halt, he again bethinks himself what is best to do. Shall he ride back and go round the village, or continue on across it, taking the chances of the treacherous ground?

He listens, soon to become assured that the pursuit has been abandoned, thus giving him choice to act deliberately, and do as seems best to him.

Around the dog town may be miles, while direct to the other side may be only a few score yards. They are often of oblong shape, extending far, but of little breadth, possibly because of the condition of the ground and the herbage it produces.

Having ridden into it, he resolves to keep on; but to his great annoyance and disgust finds it to extend far beyond the limits of his patience; and as Crusader’s hoofs break through the hollow crust, it becomes necessary to alight and lead him.

At length, however, he is out of it, and again on firm ground, with the level llano far stretching before him. But in the distance he discerns a mountain ridge, trending north and south, lit up by the moon’s light, along which, as he knows, lies the route to Arispe.

“We’re on the right road now, my noble Crusader, with no fear of being followed. And we must make it short as possible. The lives of many depend on that – on your speed, brave fellow. So let us on.”

Crusader responds with one of his strangely-intoned whimperings – almost speech. Then stands motionless, till his young master is in the saddle; after which he again goes off in a gallop, ventre à terre.

Chapter Twenty Seven.