The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora

But the hippophagists avail themselves of other comestibles of a vegetable kind; seeds from the cones of the piñon, or edible pine, and beans of the algarobia– trees of both sorts growing near. Enough of both are collected and roasted, to form an accompaniment to the horseflesh.

Fruit they find too on several species of cactus; the best of them on the pitahaya, whose tall rigid stems, with limbs like the branches of a candelabrum, tower up around their camp. So, in the desert – for it is such – they are enabled to end their dinner with dessert. To provide something for breakfast besides, a viand rare and strange, but familiar to them, a branch of their tribe – the “Mezcaleros” – making it their staple food, even to deriving their tribal appellation from it. For it is the mezcal plant, one of the wild species of magueys (Agave Mexicana). The central core, from which radiate the stiff spinous blades, is the part eaten, and the mode of preparing it is now made manifest in the Coyotero camp. Several plants are torn out by the roots, their leaves hacked off, and the skin of the core itself cut away – leaving an egg-shaped mass of white vegetable substance, large as a man’s head, or a monster mangold-wurzel. Meanwhile, a hole has been “crowed” in the ground, pit-shaped, its sides fended by flat stones, with a like pavement at the bottom. Into this red coals are flung, nigh enough to fill it; an interval allowed for these to smoulder into ashes, and the stones become burning hot. The mezcals, already wrapped up in the horse’s skin late stripped off, red side inward, along with some loose pieces of the flesh, and the bundle is lowered down into the improvised oven, then all covered over with a coat of turf. Thus buried it is left to bake all night, and in the morning will afford them a meal Lucullus need not have disdained to partake of.

The Coyoteros, well sure of this, go to sleep contentedly and without care; each rolled-up in his own wrap, his couch the naked earth, canopied by a star-bespangled sky.

In that uninhabited and pathless wilderness, or with paths only known to themselves, they have little fear of encountering an enemy; and as little dream they that within less than two hours’ gallop of their camping-ground is another camp occupied by the foes of their race, too few to resist their attack. Knew they but this, there would be a quick uprising among them, a hasty springing to horse, and hurried ride towards Nauchampa-tepetl.

Chapter Three.

A Rush for Water

Meanwhile, with many a crack of whip and cry of “Anda!” “Mula maldita!” the miners have been toiling on towards the Lost Mountain. At slow pace, a crawl; for their animals, jaded and distressed by the long-endured thirst, have barely strength enough left to drag the wagons after them. Even the pack-mules totter under their loaded alparejas.

Viewing the eminence from the place where they had pulled up, the mine labourers, like the Englishman, had been inclined to doubt the guide’s allegation as to the distance. Men whose lives are for the most part spent underground, are as sailors ashore when above it, oddly ignorant of things on the surface, save what may be learnt inside a liquor saloon. Hence their unbelief in Vicente’s statement was altogether natural. But the mule and cattle-drivers knew better, and that the gambusino was not deceiving them.

All come to this conclusion ere long, a single hour sufficing to convince them of their mistake; at the end of which, though moving continuously on, and making the best speed in their power, the mountain seems far off as ever. And when a second hour has elapsed, the diminution of distance is barely perceptible.

The sun is low down – almost touching the horizon – as they get near enough to the Cerro to note its peculiar features; for peculiar these are. Of oblong form it is; and, viewed sideways, bears resemblance to a gigantic catafalque or coffin, its top level as the lid. Not smooth, however, the horizontal line being broken by trees and bushes that stand in shaggy silhouette against the blue background of sky. At all points it presents a façade grim and precipitous, here and there enamelled by spots and streaks of verdure, wherever ledge or crevice gives plants of the scandent kind an opportunity to strike root. It is about a mile in length, trending nearly north and south, having a breadth of about half this; and in height some five hundred feet. Not much for a mountain, but enough to make it a conspicuous object, visible at a great distance off over that smooth expanse of plain. All the more from its standing solitary and alone; no other eminence within view of it, neither sierra nor spur; so looking as if strayed and lost– hence the quaint appellation it bears.

“At which end is the lake, Señor Vicente?” asks the elder Tresillian, as they are wending their way towards it; he, with Don Estevan and the guide, as before, being in advance of the wagon train.

“The southern and nearer one, your worship. And luckily for us it is so. If it were at the other end, we’d still have a traverse of a league at least before reaching it.”

“How’s that? I’ve heard that the Cerro is only a mile in length.”

“True, señor, that’s all. But there are rocks strewn over the llano below, for hundreds of yards out, and so thick we couldn’t take the wagons through them. I suppose they must have fallen from the cliffs, but how they got scattered so far, that puzzles me, though rocks have been the study of my life.”

“So they have, Pedro,” put in Don Estevan. “And you’ve studied them to some purpose. But let us not enter into a geological discussion now. I feel more concerned about something else.”

“About what, your worship?”

“Some memory tells me that Indians are accustomed to visit the Cerro Perdido. Though I can see no sign of human being about it, who knows but there might be?”

This is said after examination of the plain all along the base of the mountain through a field-glass, which Don Estevan habitually carries on his person.

“Therefore,” he continues, “I think it advisable that some five or six ride ahead – those who are best mounted – and make sure that the coast is clear. In case of redskins being there in any formidable numbers, the knowledge of it in time will enable us to form corral, and so better defend ourselves should we be attacked.”

Before becoming a master miner, Don Estevan had been a soldier, and seen service on the Indian frontier, in more than one campaign against the three great hostile tribes, Comanches, Apache, and Navajo. For which reason the gambusino, instead of making light of his counsel, altogether approves of it – of course volunteering to be himself of the reconnoitring party.

In fine, there is another short halt, while the scouts are being selected; half a dozen men of spirit and mettle, whose horses are still strong enough to show speed, should there be Indians and pursuit.

Of the half-dozen, Henry Tresillian is one; he coming up quick to the call. No fear of his horse giving out, or failing to carry him safe back if pursued, and whoever the pursuers. A noble animal of Arab strain it is, coal-black, with a dash of dun-colour between the hips and on either side of the muzzle. Nor shows it signs of distress, as the others, notwithstanding all it has come through. For has not its young master shared with it every ration of water served out along the way, even the last one that morning?

In a few minutes the scouting party is told off, and, after receiving full instructions, starts onward.

The elder Tresillian has made no objection to his son being of it; instead, being rather proud of the spirit the latter is displaying, and follows him with admiring eyes as he rides off.

Still another pair of eyes go after him, giving glances in which pride and fear are strangely commingled. For they are those of Gertrudes Villanueva. She is proud that he, whom her young heart is just learning to love, should possess such courage, while apprehensive of what may come of it.

“Adelante!” calls out the mayor-domo, who has chief charge of the caravan; and once more there is a vigorous wielding of whips, with an objurgation of mules, as the animals move reluctantly and laboriously on.

In twenty minutes after, all is changed with them. Horse and hybrid – every animal in the train – have raised head and pricked up ears, with nostrils distended. Even the horned cattle to rearward have caught the infection, and low loudly in response to the neighing of the horses and the hinneying of the mules. There is a very fracas of noises, like a Bedlam broke loose, the voice of the mayor-domo rising above all as he cries out,

“Guarda, la estampeda!”

And a “stampede” it becomes, all knowing the cause. The animals have scented water, and no longer need whip-lash or cry to urge them on. Instead, teamsters and arrieros find it impossible to restrain them, for it were a struggle against Nature itself. Taking the bits between their teeth, and regardless of rein, horses, mules, all rush simultaneously and madly forward, as if each had a score of gadflies with their venomous probosces buried deep in its body.

A helter-skelter it is, with a loud hullaballoo, the heavily-laden wagons drawn over the ground as light-like and with the velocity of bicycles, and making noise as of thunder. For now, near the mountain’s foot, the plain is bestrewed with stones, some big enough to raise the wheels on high, almost to overturning the vehicles, eliciting agonised cries from the women and children inside them. No more are Indians thought of for the time; enough danger without that, from upsets, broken bones, indeed death.

In the end none of these eventualities arise. Luckily – and more by good luck than guiding – the wagons keep their balance, and they within them their places, till all come to a stand again. While still tearing on, they see before them a disc of water lit up by the last rays of departing sunlight, with half a dozen horsemen – the reconnoitring party – drawn up on its edge, in attitude of wonder at their coming after so soon.

But their animals, still in rush, give no opportunity for explanation. On go they into the lake, horses, mules, and cattle mingled together; nor stop till they are belly-deep, with the water up over their nostrils. No more neighing nor lowing now, but all silent, swilling, and contented.

Chapter Four.

El Ojo de Agua

Morning dawns upon the Lost Mountain, to disclose a scene such as had never before been witnessed in that solitary spot. For never before had wagon, or other wheeled vehicle, approached it. Remote from town or civilised settlement, leagues away from any of the customary routes of travel, the only white men having occasion to visit it had been hunters or gold-seekers, and their visits, like those of angels, few and far between. Red men, however, have sought it more frequently, for it is not far from one of their great war-trails – that leading from the Apache country to the settlements on the Horcasitas, so serving these savages as a convenient halting-place when on raid thither. The reconnoitring party, sent in advance of the caravan, had discovered traces of their presence by the lake’s edge; but none recent, and nothing to signify. There were no fresh tracks upon the meadow-grass, nor the belt of naked sand around the water, save those of wild animals that had come thither to quench their thirst.

In confidence, therefore, the miners made camp, though not negligently or carelessly. The old militario had seen too much campaigning for that, and directed the wagons to be drawn up in a corral of oval shape, tongues and tails united as the links of a chain. Lone-bodied vehicles, the six enclose a considerable space – enough to accommodate all who have need to stay inside. In case of attack it could be still further strengthened by the bales, boxes, and alparejas of the pack-mules. Outside the animals were staked, and are still upon their tethers, though without much concern about their running away. After the long traverse over the dry llanos, and the suffering they have endured, now on such good grass, and beside such sweet water, they will contentedly stay till it please their masters to remove them.

Fires had been kindled the night before, but only for cooking supper; it is summer, and there is no discomfort from cold – heat rather. And now at dawn the fires are being re-lighted with a view to desayuna, and later on breakfast; for, though the caravan had unexpectedly run short of water, its stock of provisions is still unexhausted.

Among the earliest up – nay, the very first – is Pedro Vicente. Not with any intention to take part in culinary operations. Gambusino and guide, he would scorn such menial occupations. His reasons for being so early astir are altogether different and twofold; though but one of them has he made known, and that only to Henry Tresillian. Overnight, ere retiring to rest, he had signified his intention to ascend the Cerro in the morning – soon as there was enough of daylight to make the ascent practicable – in hopes of finding game both of the furred and feathered sorts, he said. For in addition to his métier as guide to the caravan – being a skilled hunter as well as gold-seeker – he holds engagement to supply it with venison, or such other meat commodity as may fall to his gun. For days he has had but little opportunity of showing his hunter skill. On the sterile tract through which they have been passing birds and quadrupeds are scarce, even such as usually inhabit it having gone elsewhere in consequence of the long-continued drought. All the more is he desirous to make up for late deficit, and at least furnish the table of the quality with something fresh. He knows there are game animals on the mountain – a mesa, as already said, level-topped, with trees growing over it, besides water; for there is the fountain’s head, source of the stream and lake below. On the night before, he had spoken of wild sheep as likely to be found above, with antelopes, and possibly a bear or two, also turkeys. Now, in the morning, he is sure about these last, having heard them, as is their wont before sunrise, saluting one another with that sonorous call from which they derive their Mexican name, guajaloté.

These confidences he has imparted to Henry Tresillian, who is to accompany him in the chase, though not from any view of inspiring the latter with its ardour. There is no need; the young Englishman being a hunter by instinct, with a love for natural history as well, and the Lost Mountain promises rich reward for the climbing, in discovery as in sport. Besides, the two have been compagnons de chasse all along the route; habitually together, the fellow-feeling of huntership making such association congenial. So, early as is the Mexican afoot, he beats the English youth by barely a minute of time; the latter seen issuing forth from one of the tents that form part of the encampment, just as the former has crawled out from between the wheels of a wagon, under which, rolled-up in his frezada, he had passed the night.

With just enough light to identify him, Henry Tresillian is seen to be habited in shooting coat, breeches, and gaiters, laced buskins, and a tweed cloth cap; in short, the costume of an English sportsman – shot-belt over the shoulders, and double-barrel in hand – about to attack a pheasant preserve, or go tramping through stubble and swedes. The gambusino himself wears the picturesque dress of his class and country; the gun he carries being a rifle, while the sword-like weapon hanging along his hip is the ever-present macheté– in Sonora sometimes called cortanté.

As, overnight, the programme had been all arranged, their interchange of speech at present has only reference to something in the way of desayuna before setting out. This they find ready and near; at the central camp fire now blazing up, where several of the women, “whisks” in hand, are bending over pots of chocolate, stirring the substantial liquid to a creamy froth.

A taza of it is handed to each of the “cazadores,” with a “tortilla enchilada,” accompanied by a graceful word of welcome. Then, emptying the cups, and chewing up the tough, leatherlike maize cakes, the hunters slip quietly out of camp, and set their faces for the Cerro.

The ascent, commenced almost immediately, is by a ravine – a sort of gorge or chine worn out by the water from the spring-head above and disintegrating rains throughout the long ages. They find it steep as a staircase, though not winding as one; instead, trending straight up from its debouchment on the plain to the summit level, between slopes, these with grim, rocky façade, still more precipitous. Down its bottom cascades the stream – a tiny rivulet now, but in rain-storms a torrent – and along this lies the path, the only one by which the Cerro can be ascended, as the gambusino already knows.

“There’s no other,” he says, as they are clambering upward, “where a man could make the ascent, unless with a Jacob’s ladder let down to him. All around, the cliff is as steep as the shaft of a mine. Even the wild sheep can’t scale it, and if we find any on the summit – and it’s to be hoped we shall – they must either have been bred there, or gone up this way. Guarda!” he adds, in exclamation, as he sees the impulsive English youth bounding on rather recklessly. “Have a care! Don’t disturb the stones; they may go rattling down and smash somebody below.”

“By Jove! I didn’t think of that,” returns he thus cautioned, turning pale at thought of how he might have endangered the lives of those dear to him; then ascending more slowly, and with the care enjoined upon him.

In due time they arrive at the head of the gorge, there stopping to take breath. Only for an instant, when they proceed on, now no longer in a climb, the path thence leading over ground level as the plain itself; but still by the rivulet’s edge, through a tangle of trees and bushes.

At some two hundred yards from the head of the gorge they come into an opening, the Mexican as he enters it exclaiming:

“El ojo de agua!”

Chapter Five.

Los Guajalotes