The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora

“Well, caballeros,” continues the Colonel, “we’ve done our best so far; pray God to good purpose. Let us hope we’re in time. I wonder how it is? What’s your thought, Romero?”

“I have none, Requeñes – only hopes that they’ve held out.”

“I wish,” pursues the Colonel, in half soliloquy, “we but knew for certain; ’twould make an important difference as to how I dispose of my force. Should they be still there – ”

“Señor Colonel,” interposes the youthful guide, “if you’ll let me have a look through your telescope, I think I can settle that point.”

This, as he sees the commanding officer drawing his field-glass from its case.

“In welcome, señorito. Here!” and he hands him the telescope.

Instantly it is brought to his eye, and eagerly – his fingers trembling as they hold it out. What he hopes to see will tell him that his father and friends still live; if he sees it not, he will know they are dead; and she, dearer than all, condemned to a fate far worse!

What a change comes over his countenance almost on the instant of his raising the glass to his eye! Hitherto grave to apprehension, all at once it lights joyously up, as from his lips proceed the words, “They’re still on the mountain; Heaven be praised!”

“If it be so, Heaven deserves praise – all our thanks. But how know you, señorito?”

“By the flag!”

“What flag?”

“Take the glass, Colonel; look for yourself.”

Receiving back the telescope, and adjusting it to his sight, Requeñes levels it at the Lost Mountain.

“At the nearest end, up on the summit,” pursues Henry Tresillian, instructingly, “you’ll see it. It is the flag of Mexico. Don Estevan intended to have raised it over his new mine, and had it hoisted yonder in the hope it might be seen by some white men, and lead to our situation being made known. It has proved of service now; telling us our friends are still in the land of the living. If they were not it wouldn’t be there.”

“You’re right, señorito, it wouldn’t. And it is there – I see it! – yes, can even make out the national insignia – the eagle and nopal. We may thank Heaven, indeed.”

“And we do!” exclaims the ganadero, raising his hat reverentially, all following his example.

A thrill of exultation runs like wildfire backward on to the extremest rear – a joyous excitement, as the soldiers learn they have not made their long march in vain, and that the foe is before them, not far oft. For the banner waving above proclaims the siege still continued, and the Indians keeping it up.

“They are there,” affirms the Colonel, after gazing some time through his glass. “I can see the smoke ascending from their camp fires. No doubt by this they’ll be cooking their breakfasts. Well, we won’t be in time to hinder their having that meal; but if they eat dinner this day, without my leave, I shall be willing to throw up my commission as colonel of the Zacatecas Lancers. Now, gentlemen!” he adds, turning to his staff, and summoning his chief officers around him in council of war, “the enemy is yonder; no doubt of it. ’Tis a question as to how we should advance upon him. Give your opinion, Major Garcia.”

“How many are there supposed to be, Colonel?” asks the major, a sage, grizzled veteran. “Our mode of approaching them should much depend upon that.”

“Unluckily I can’t tell,” says the Commander-in-chief; “there were wellnigh five hundred all told when together; but it appears that half went off on a raid down the Horcasitas, the other half remaining to carry on the siege. If the raiders are returned and are now among the besiegers, then we’ll have their full force to deal with, and may expect a sharp fight for it. I know these redskins of old, the band of the Rattlesnake; though, as our young friend informs me, that worthy has ceased to exist, and the Vulture reigns in his stead. All the worse for us, as Zopilote was the master of Cascabel in tactics, cunning, courage – everything. Never mind, we should only be too glad to meet the renowned warrior, if but for glory’s sake.”

While the Colonel is still speaking a voice is heard to rearward, with exclamations telling of excitement there. Immediately after a subaltern officer of the rear-guard advances rapidly to the front, conducting a strange horseman, whose dress, travel-stained, with the sweat and dust upon his horse, betokens him just arrived from a journey long and hurriedly made. A messenger on some errand, which his wan, woebegone face bespeaks to be of the saddest.

“Whence come you, amigo?” demands the commanding officer, as the stranger is brought face to face with him.

“From Nacomori, on the Horcasitas, Señor Colonel,” is the answer.

“On what business?” asks Requeñes, more than half divining it.

“Oh, señor, the Indians have been there; killed scores of our people – children as grown men; plundered and burnt our houses; carried off all our young women; made rack and ruin of everything. I rode to Arispe, hoping to find you there, but you were gone, and I’ve hastened hither after you.”

“What Indians? Where did they come from?”

“From the north, señor; down the river. Apaches, we thought; but it was in the night they came upon us, and no one could be sure. When morning came they had gone off with everything.”

“What night? How long since this occurred?”

“The night of Lunes– just four days ago.”

“The raiding party of the Coyoteros, gentlemen,” says the Colonel to his surrounding. “The time corresponds, the place – everything; and likely they’ve got back, and are now by the Cerro yonder. If so, we have others to rescue beside our own friends; with chastisement to inflict on the red-handed marauders, to say nothing of revenge. So much the more reason for our not losing time. Major! order the regiment to close up and form line. Let the others be drawn in also; I want to say a word to them.”

With a quickness due to thorough discipline, the lancers are brought into battle line; not for fight now, but to receive an address. Thrown forward on one flank, and facing inwards, are the light artillerists; while on the other in file form are Romero’s irregulars.

Placing himself in a position to be heard by all, the Commander-in-chief cries out:

“Camarados! at the base of yonder hill, where you see smoke rising, is the enemy. Apaches – Coyoteros – as we know, knowing them also to be the cruellest of all the savages that infest our frontier. To say nothing of the glory gained in conquering them, ’twill be doing humanity a service to destroy them; and never more than now has there been reason.

“This gentleman,” – he points to the newly-arrived messenger, still on horseback and near by – “has brought news of a bloodthirsty massacre they have just committed at Nacomori, on the Horcasitas, where women, scores, have been carried off. Like enough they’re all over yonder now, and we may be in time to release these prisoners, and avenge the murders that have been done. The only fear is of the Indians getting away from us. Mounted on their swift mustangs, and leaving all encumbrances behind, that is still possible enough. But to prevent it, I intend dividing my force, and sending detachments around to intercept and cut off their retreat on every route they may take. We must deal them a death-blow, and I now call on you – every man to do his best. Remember how many of our people, perhaps many of your own relatives, have fallen victims to the ferocity of these ruthless marauders. Think of the crime we have just heard of at Nacomori. Think of it, camarados, and strike home!”

An enthusiastic cheer hails the Colonel’s speech; and while it is still ringing commands are issued for the disposition of the advance – the movement soon after commencing.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Succour in Sight

Not an hour of daylight now passes, scarce a minute, without Don Estevan Villanueva or Robert Tresillian having the telescope to their eyes, scanning the plain southward. For days this has been their practice, up to that on which the red marauders are seen returning from their murderous expedition.

And on the following morning at earliest dawn the two – Pedro Vicente along with them – take their stand on an outward projection of the mesa, which commands a view of the llano all round its southern side, at the same time overlooking the Coyotero camp.

They have not been long there when, under the first rays of the rising sun, they see something sparkle which had never been observed by them before, though in a place with which they are familiar – the same where they first sighted the Cerro Perdido. Nor is the glancing object a single one, for there are many shining points as stars in a constellation. They are visible to the naked eye, for as yet none of them have looked through the telescope. As Don Estevan is levelling it, the gambusino says:

“Looks like the glitter of arms and accoutrements. Pray the Virgin it be that!”

“It is that!” cries Don Estevan, at the first glance through the glass. “Arms, and in the hands of men. I can make out a body of horse in uniform – soldiers. Requeñes and his regiment; he to a certainty. At length – at last – we may hope to be rescued, and our long imprisonment brought to an end.”

His words, spoken excitedly and aloud, attract those who are sauntering near, and soon most upon the mesa come clustering round him. To see with eyes unaided that metallic sheen, as they eagerly hearken to its interpretation. Don Estevan, with the telescope still held aloft, goes on speaking:

“Yes; ’tis they! I can see they carry lances, by the sun glinting on the blades above their heads. They can be no other than the Zacatecas regiment, with my brother-in-law at its head. Your son, Tresillian, is safe; their being yonder tells of his having reached Arispe. Brave youth! we all owe him our blessing.”

“And we give him that, with our gratitude!” shouts Pedro Vicente, the others enthusiastically echoing his words.

There is a momentary lull, all ears intently listening for what Don Estevan may next say; which is:

“They appear to be extending line, and look as if there were a good six or seven hundred. Ah! now I note there are others besides the lancers – a battery of brass guns – that’s what’s flashing back the sun. And a body of horsemen, not in uniform. They seem to be at halt. Why and for what?”

“Like enough,” suggests Tresillian, “they’ve made out our flag telling them we are still here. Requeñes, with others of his officers, will have telescopes too, and must see it, as also that smoke over the camp below. It will tell them our besiegers are there also. That would cause them to halt – to concert measures for the attack.”

“You’re right, Don Roberto, it must be as you say. But now there’s a movement among them. The mass is breaking up into detachments, some commencing to march to the right, others to the left. Ah! I see it all: they mean making a surround, cutting off the retreat of our enemy. Caramba! Requeñes is a cunning strategist, as I always believed him.”

With the glass still at his eye, the old soldier can see every movement made, comprehending all, and explaining them in succession to the audience around him. A party of lancers, seemingly a squadron, separating from the main body, moves off to the right, another party of like strength proceeding in the opposite direction. Then other detachments follow these, as if to form an enfilading line when the time comes for it. But the central force remains stationary long after the flanking parties have been extended, and is only seen to advance when they are far away. These make wide circuit, evidently designed to embrace the Coyoteros’ camp, and, if need be, the Cerro itself.