The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora

At this the young aide-de-camp turns round on his chair, his face showing an expression of pain. He says nothing, however, but continues an earnest listener to the conversation.

“Merciful Heaven!” exclaims the ganadero, with a groan, “I hope it has not come to that.”

“I hope so too, and don’t yet think it has; only that it’s probable enough – too probable. Still, even if set upon, they would resist; and when one comes to remember how many there were of them, they ought to make a stout resistance.”

“Many of them,” rejoins Don Juliano, “both miners and vaqueros, are of approved valour, and were well armed. I was at the old minera when they started off, and saw that for myself.”

“Yes, I know; but their holding out would depend on the sort of ground they chanced to be on when attacked, if they have been attacked. By good luck, our mutual brother-in-law is no novice to Indian tactics, but a soldier of experience, who’ll know how to act in any emergency.”

“True; but the worst of it is his being embarrassed by having so many women and children with him; among them, alas! my sister and niece. Pobrecitas!”

Again the young officer shifts uneasily on his chair, the expression of pain still upon his face. For he is the cousin whom Gertrude was said to have forgotten.

“They took a number of large vehicles with them?” says the Colonel, interrogatively. “American wagons, did they not?”

“They did.”

“How many? Can you remember?”

“Six or seven, I think.”

“And a large pack-train?”

“Yes; the atajo seemed to number about fourscore mules.”

For a moment the Colonel is silent, seeming to reflect, then says:

“Villanueva would know how to throw these carros into corral, and with so many pack-saddles ought to make a defensible breastwork, to say nothing of the bales and boxes of goods. If not taken by surprise while en route, he’d be sure of using that precaution. So protected, and armed as they were, they ought to hold good their ground against any number of redskins. The worst danger would be their getting dropped on in some place without water. In that case surrender would be the necessary result, and surrender to Apaches were as death itself.”

“Santissima! yes – we all know that. But, Requeñes, do you really think we’ve to fear their having met such a disaster?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’d fain not fear it, but the thing looks grave, no matter in what way one views it. There should have been word from them several days ago; none coming, what other can be the explanation?”

“Ay, true; what other?” rejoins the ganadero, despondently. “But what ought we to do?” he adds.

“I’ve been considering that for some time, but couldn’t make up my mind. I’ve made it up now.”

“To what?”

“To sending one of my squadrons along the route they took; with orders to follow it up, if need be, to the new-discovered mine; at all events, till it be ascertained what hinders our hearing from them.”

“That seems the best and only way,” returns Don Juliano. “But when do you propose your men to start?”

“Immediately – soon as they can be ready. For such an expedition, most of the way through a very wilderness, they will need supplies, however lightly equipped. But I will issue the order this moment. Cecilio,” to the aide-de-camp, “hasten down to the cuartel, and tell Major Garcia to come to me at once.”

The young officer, rising at the words and clapping on his shako, makes straight for the outer door. But before stepping over its threshold, he sees that which causes him to return instantly to the receiving-room, to the surprise of those he had left there.

“What is it?” demands the Colonel.

“Look there!”

He points out through the open window over the plaza in front of it. Springing from their seats and moving up to it, they perceive a young man on horseback advancing towards the house; his face pale, and with a wayworn look, his dress dust-stained, and otherwise out of order, the horse he bestrides steaming at the nostrils, froth clouted, and with palpitating flanks.

“Caramba!” exclaims Colonel Requeñes. “That’s young Tresillian, the son of Villanueva’s partner!”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

To the Rescue

In an instant after Henry Tresillian is inside the room, warmly received by both the Colonel and ganadero; less so by the young officer, though the two had been formerly bosom friends. The coolness of Cecilio Romero can be easily understood; but in the scene which succeeds, with hasty questioning, and answers alike hurried, no one takes note of it.

“You bring news – bad news, I fear?” says the Colonel.

“Bad, yes. I’m sorry having to say so,” returns the messenger. “This is for you, señor – from Don Estevan Villanueva. ’Twill tell you all.”

He pulls a folded paper from under his jacket, and hands it to the Colonel.

Breaking it open, the latter reads aloud; Romero standing by and listening, for its contents concern them all.

Thus ran it:

“Hermano mio, (brother),

“If Heaven permit this to reach your hands, ’twill tell you how we are situated – in extreme peril, I grieve to say, surrounded by Apache Indians, the most hostile and cruel of all – the Coyoteros. Where and how I need not specify. The brave boy who bears this, if successful in putting it into your hands, will give you all details. When you’ve got them, I know how you will act, and that no appeal from me is necessary. On you alone depends our safety – our lives. Without your help we are lost.

“Estevan Villanueva.”

“They shall not be lost,” cries the Colonel, greatly agitated – “not one of them, if the Zacatecas Lancers can save them. I go to their aid; will start at once. Away, Cecilio! down to the cuartel! Bring Major Garcia back with you immediately. Now, señorito,” he adds, turning to Henry Tresillian, “the details. Tell us all. But, first, where are our friends in such peril? In what place are they surrounded?”

“In a place strange enough, Señor Colonel,” answers the young Englishman. “On the top of a mountain.”

“On the top of a mountain!” echoes the Colonel. “A strange situation, indeed. What sort of mountain?”

“One standing alone on the llanos, out of sight of any other, ’Tis known as the Cerro Perdido.”

“Ah! I’ve heard of it.”

“I too,” says the ganadero.

“Up somewhere near the sources of the Horcasitas. A singular eminence – a mesa, I believe. But how came they to go there? It must be some way off the route to their intended destination.”

“We were forced thither, señor, through want of water. The guide advised it, and his advice would have been for the best, but for the ill luck of the savages chancing to come along that way.”

“Muchacho, I won’t confuse you with further questioning, but leave you to tell your tale. We listen. First have a copita of Catalan brandy to refresh you. You seem in need of it.”

“There’s one needs refreshing as much as myself, Señor Colonel; ay, more, and more deserves it.”

“What one! Who?”