The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora

“My horse out there. But for him I would not be here.”

“Ah! that’s your grand steed,” says the Colonel, looking out; “I remember him – Crusader. He does seem to need it, and shall have it. Sargento!” This in loud call to an orderly sergeant in waiting outside, who, instantly showing his face at the door, receives command to see the black horse attended to.

“Now, muchacho mio! proceed.”

Henry Tresillian, still speaking hurriedly for reasons comprehensible, runs over all that has occurred to the caravan, since its departure from the worked-out mine near Arispe, till its arrival at the Lost Mountain. Then the unexpected approach of the Indians, resulting in the retreat to the summit of the Cerro, with the other incidents and events succeeding – to that, the latest, of himself being lowered down the cliff, and his after-escape through the fleetness of his matchless steed.

“How many of the Indians are there?” asks the Colonel. “Can you tell that, señorito?”

“Between four and five hundred, we supposed; but they were not all there when I left. Some days before half their number went off on a marauding expedition southward; so our guide believed, as they were dressed and painted as when on the war-trail.”

“These had not returned when you came away?”

“No, Señor Colonel; no sign of them.”

“I see it all now, and pity the poor people who live on the lower Horcasitas. That’s where they were bent for, no doubt. The more reason for our making haste to reach the Cerro Perdido. We may catch these raiders on return. Sargento!” This again in call to the orderly, who responds instantly by presenting himself in the doorway.

“Summon the bugler! Give him orders to sound the ‘assembly’ at once. We must start without a moment’s delay. How fortunate those Yaquis kept quiet, else I would be now operating around Guaymas.”

“We must, Requeñes. But will your regiment be enough? How many men can you muster?”

“Five hundred. But there’s the battery of mountain howitzers – fifty men more. Of course, I take that along.”

“And of course I go too,” says the ganadero; “and, to make sure of our having force sufficient, can take with me at least a hundred good men, the pick of my vaqueros. Fortunately they’re now all within easy summons, assembled at my house for the herradero” (cattle branding), “which was to come off to-morrow. That can be postponed. Hasta lúego, Colonel; I ride back home to bring them; so doubt not my having them here, and ready for the route soon as your soldiers.”

“Bueno! Whether needed or not, it will be well to have your valiant vaqueros with us. I’ll welcome them.”

Instantly after the plaza of Arispe displays an animated scene, people crowding into it from all parts, with air excited. For the report, brought by the young Englishman, has gone forth and all abroad, spreading like wildfire, – Villanueva and Tresillian, with all their people, surrounded by savages! “Los Indios!” is the cry carried from point to point, striking terror into the hearts of the Arispenos, as though the dreaded redskins, instead of being at an unknown distance off, were at the gates of their city.

Then succeeds loud cheering as the bugle-call proclaims the approach of the lanzeros, troop after troop filing into the plaza, and forming line in front of their colonel’s quarters, all in complete equipment, and ready for the route.

More cheering as Don Juliano Romero comes riding in at the head of his hundred retainers; vaqueros and rancheros, in the picturesque costume of the country, armed to the teeth, and mounted on their mustangs, fresh, fiery, and prancing.

Still another cheer, as the battery of mountain howitzers rolls in and takes its place in the line. Then a loud chorus of vivas! as the march commences, prolonged and carried on as the column moves through the street; the crowd following far beyond the suburbs, to take leave of it with prayers upon their lips for the successful issue of an expedition in which many of them are but too painfully interested.

Chapter Thirty.

The Raiders Returned

Another ten days have elapsed, and they on the Cerro Perdido are held there rigorously as ever; a strong guard kept constantly stationed at both points where it is possible for them to reach the plain.

In the interval no incident of any note has arisen to vary the monotony of their lives. One day is just as the other, with little to occupy them, save the watch by the ravine’s head, which needs to be maintained with vigilance unabated.

But much change has arisen both in their circumstances and appearance. With provision wellnigh out, they have been for days on less than half allowance, and famine has set its stamp on their features. Pallid, hollow cheeks, with eyes sunken in their sockets, are seen all around; and some of the weaker ones begin to totter in their steps, till the place more resembles the grounds of an hospital than an encampment of travellers. They have miscalculated their resources, which gave out sooner than expected.

In this lamentably forlorn condition they are still uncertain as to the fate of their messenger, their doubts about his safety increasing every day – every hour. Not that they suppose him to have fallen into the hands of the Coyoteros. On the contrary, they are convinced of his having escaped, else some signs of his capture would have been apparent in the Indian camp, and none such are observed. But other contingencies may have arisen: an accident to himself, or his horse, delaying him on the route, if not stopping him altogether.

Or may it be, as Don Estevan has said, that Colonel Requeñes with his soldiers is absent from Arispe, and there is a difficulty in raising a force of civilians sufficient for effecting their rescue?

These conjectures, with many others, pass through their minds, producing a despondency, now at its darkest and deepest. For at first, in their impatience, blind to probabilities, they fancied theirs a winged messenger – a Mercury, who should have brought them succour long since. That bright dream is passed, and the reaction has set in, gloomy as shadow of death itself.

Nor seems there to be much cheer in the camp of their besiegers. They can look down upon it from a distance near enough to distinguish the individual forms of the savages, and note all their actions in the open. Through the telescope can be read even the expressions on their features, showing that they, too, have their anxieties and apprehensions; no doubt from the black horse and his rider having got away from them.

Their scouts are still observed to come and go. Some are sent northward, others to the south; the last evidently to look out for the return of the raiding party gone down the Horcasitas.

Another day passes, and they are seen coming back, at a pace which betokens their bringing a report of an important nature. That it is a welcome one to their comrades in the camp can be told by their shouts of triumph as they approach.

Soon after they upon the mesa are made aware of the cause, by seeing the red marauders themselves coming on towards the camp, in array very different from that when leaving it. Instead of only their arms and light equipments, every man of them is now laden with spoil, every horse besides his rider carrying a load, either on withers or croup. And they have other horses with them now – a caballada– mules, too, all under pack and burden.

No, not all. As the long straggling line draws closer to the Cerro, they on its summit see a number of these animals bearing on their backs something more than the loot of plundered houses. They see women, most of them appearing to be young girls.

As they are conducted on to the camp, and inside its enclosure, Don Estevan, viewing them through his telescope, can trace upon their persons, as their features, all the signs and lines proclaiming utter despair: dresses torn, hair hanging dishevelled, and eyes downcast, with not a ray or spark of hope in them.

Others look through the glass, to be pained by the heart-saddening spectacle; each of the married ones, as he views it, thinking of his own wife or daughter, in fear their fate may be the same – a fate too horrid to be dwelt upon in thought, much less to be talked about.

This day they are not permitted to see more. Twilight is already on, and night’s darkness, almost instantly succeeding, shuts out from their view everything below.

But if they see not, they can hear. There are continuous noises in the camp throughout the rest of the night – cries and joyous ejaculations. The Coyoteros have made a grand coup: much plunder acquired, many prisoners taken, and pale-faced foes slain, almost to a glut of vengeance. They are greatly jubilant, and yield themselves to a very paean of rejoicing, their boasts and exulting shouts at intervals reverberating along the cliffs.

It is another night of carousal with them, as that when they first sate down to the siege; for among the proceeds of their recent maraud are several pig-skins of aguardiente, and this fiery spirit, freely distributed, excites them almost to madness.

So loud are their yells, so angrily, vengefully intoned, that they who listen above begin to fear they may at length become reckless, and, coûte que coûte, risk the assault so long unattempted. In such numbers now, feeling their strength, they may hold a little loss light. Besides, there is still that apprehension from the side of Arispe; it may further urge them to a desperate deed, which, if not done at once, must be left undone, and the siege ingloriously abandoned.

These are but the conjectures of the besieged, who, acting upon them, keep watch throughout the remainder of the night. Never more wakeful, seemingly, though never less needed; for up till the hour of dawn, no assailant is seen approaching the gorge, no sound heard of any one attempting to scale that steep acclivity.

Of those fearing that they will try, Pedro Vicente is not among the number. Endeavouring to give confidence to his doubting companions, he says,

“I know the Coyoteros too well to suppose them such fools. Not all the aguardiente in Sonora will make them mad enough to expose themselves to our battery of stones. They don’t forget our having it here, and that we’re watching their every movement; ready to rain a storm of rocks on them if they but come under its range. So, camarados, keep up heart and courage! We’ve nothing more to fear to-day than we had yesterday. That’s hunger, not their spears or scalping-knives.”

Fortified by the gambusino’s words, they to whom they are addressed feel their confidence restored – enough to inspire them with further patience and endurance.

Chapter Thirty One.

The Rescuers en Route

“Son! that’s the Lost Mountain, is it?”

“It is, Colonel.”

“Gracias a Dios! Glad we’ve sighted it at last. How far do you think we’re from it, señorito? Nigh twenty miles, I take it; though it looks nearer.”

“’Tis all of twenty miles, Colonel; so our guide said when we first saw it from the place.”

“I can quite believe it. On these high plains distances are very deceptive; but my experience enables me to judge pretty correctly.”

The dialogue is between Colonel Requeñes and Henry Tresillian; the latter acting as guide to the expedition en route to release those imprisoned on the Cerro Perdido. Others are beside them; Don Juliano with his son, the young aide-de-camp, and several officers of the staff; their escort forming an advanced guard. Not far behind it, the howitzer battery, followed by the lancer regiment in open order; then Romero’s irregulars, closed by a troop of lancers as rear-guard, completing the marching column.

All are at halt, brought to it as soon as the Cerro was sighted. They have been on march from an early hour by moonlight, and as the sun, now rising, has lit up the plain afar, the solitary eminence can be clearly seen. As may be deduced from the young Englishman’s words, the point they have arrived at is the same where the caravan had temporarily come to a stop – the very spot itself; for close by is the tree bearing the initials of the gambusino.