Chapter Twenty Seven.
In Painful Suspense
Than the rest of that night no more anxious time has been spent by the beleaguered miners. If their new messenger fail in his errand, then they can never dispatch another. No chance for a second one to descend the cliff, or get down the gorge, for both will be hereafter guarded more carefully than ever.
All stay awake till morning, listening to every sound below, and doing what they can to interpret it. They had heard the cries near the Indian camp as Henry Tresillian attempted to pass it, those by the ravine’s head hearing them plainer. Then other cries, as in response, proceeding from the western side of the lake.
After that a moment of silence, succeeded by a plunging noise, as of a horse making his way through deep water. And soon after shouts again, for a while continuous, terminating in hoof-strokes, at each instant less distinct, at length dying away in the distance.
But just then they upon the cliff had to listen to other sounds more concerning themselves. For it was at this time their presence became known to the party remaining behind, resulting in that hurried ascent from ledge to ledge, with the loss of one of their number.
Long after, they see that which renews their excitement, their thoughts in a conflict between hope and fear. From the vidette post, around which they have all gathered, they behold a moving mass, in the early dawn distinguishable as men on horseback. It is the party who went in pursuit of their messenger returning. But whether they have him with them or no cannot be told; for they come back in a thick clump, and he may be in its midst invisible. Nor is it opened out till they pass behind the abutment of rock, disappearing from the view of those on the mesa.
By the besieged ones the day is passed with anxiety unrelieved. For, although several had hastily proceeded to a point from which a sight of the Indian camp could be obtained, it was yet too dark to see whether the pursuers had brought back a prisoner. And when daylight came, he might be there without their being able to see him – inside the marquee, or under one of the wagons.
Gradually, however, their hopes gain the ascendant; for nothing of Crusader can be seen, and the noble steed, if there, could not well be hidden away. Besides, there is no more setting up of that ensanguined stake, no more firing at a human target, as would likely have taken place had the pale-faced courier been their captive. Instead, a certain restlessness, with signs of apprehension, is observed among themselves throughout all the day, almost proclaiming his escape.
In Don Estevan’s tent it is discussed, and this conclusion come to, giving joy to all. But to none as to his own daughter. All day a prey to keen, heart-sickening anxiety, how glad is she at hearing the gambusino say:
“I’m sure the señorito has got safe away, and is now on the road to Arispe. Were it not so, we’d have seen him ere this – tied to that accursed stake and riddled with bullets, as the others. The brutes meant doing the same with me; had almost begun it, when, thanks to the Virgin, there came a slip between cup and lip. And I think we may thank her now for giving a like chance to the brave lad. Santos Dios! he deserves it.”
Cheering words to Gertrude, who can scarce resist rushing up to the speaker and giving him a kiss for them. Chaste kiss it would be, for the gambusino is neither young nor handsome. She contents herself by saying:
“Oh, sir! if he get safe to Arispe, you shall be paid for your saddle ten times over. I’m sure father will not grudge that.”
“Saddle, niña lindissima!” exclaims Vicente, with a quizzical smile; “that’s nought to me. I’d be glad to sacrifice a hundred such – ay, a thousand, if I could afford it, for him you seem so interested in. His life’s too precious to be weighed in the scale against all the horsegear in the world.”
All signify approval of these generous sentiments, so pleasing to the youth’s father, who tacitly listens. And the brief dialogue over, they turn to discussing the chances of relief reaching them, now for the first time seeming favourable.
“If,” says Don Estevan, hopeful as any, “he meet no accident before arriving at Arispe, then we may count on receiving succour. There’s but one thing we have to fear – time! Nor need we fear that, if Colonel Requeñes be there with his regiment. By ill fortune he may not.”
“What reason have you for thinking he may not?” asks Robert Tresillian.
“I recall his telling me, just before we started, that there was a likelihood of his being ordered to Guaymas, to assist in suppressing a reported rising of the Yaquis Indians. If he has gone thither we’ll be no better off than before.”
“But the people of Arispe – surely they will not be indifferent to our situation?”
It is the Englishman who interrogates.
“Ah, true,” returns the Mexican, correcting himself, as a reassured expression comes over his countenance. “They will not. I did not think of that. I see it now.”
“’Tis not for us and ours alone we may expect them to bestir themselves; but for their own relatives and friends. Think, amigo mio! There isn’t one of our following but has left some one behind who should rush to the rescue soon as hearing how things stand.”
“You’re right, Don Roberto. Whether the soldiers be there or not. Arispe and its surroundings can surely furnish force enough to effect our deliverance. We must have patience – hope and pray for it.”
“Dear husband,” here interposes the señora, “you seem to forget my brother, Juliano, and his three hundred peones. At least half of them are brave fellows, a match for any savages as these who surround us. If Henrique succeed in reaching Arispe, he will go on to my brother’s hacienda, soldiers or no soldiers.”
This speech from an unexpected quarter further heightens their hopes, already rapidly rising. They almost feel as if the siege was being raised, and themselves about to continue their long-delayed journey.
A like sentiment pervades the people all through the camp. In every shed and booth is a group conversing on the same topic, and much in a similar way; all with trusting reliance on the friends left behind, confident they will not fail them.
At this self-same hour the feeling in the Coyotero camp is quite the contrary: instead of confidence, there is doubt, even apprehension. The white men’s messenger – for they are sure he must have been this – has got through their lines, clear away, and well do they comprehend the consequences.
They know the miners come from Arispe – marks on the wagons and other chattels tell them that – and the paleface courier will be now hastening thither. On such a swift steed he will reach it in quick time; and, with the tale which he has to tell, alike quick will be the response: a rescuing host in rush for Nauchampa-tepetl. It may even arrive before the return of their raiders from the Horcasitas.
Thus apprehensive, on the day and night following the escape of Henry Tresillian, and for many days and nights after, there is as much, if not more, anxiety in the camp of the besiegers as in that of the besieged.
The latter fear but famine; the former, fire and sword.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Friends in Fear
“Glad to see you, Señor Juliano! It’s not often you honour Arispe with your presence.”
Colonel Requeñes is the speaker, he spoken to being a gentleman of middle age, in civilian costume, the dress of a haciendado. It is Don Juliano Romero, brother of the Señora Villanueva, the owner of a large ganaderia or grazing estate, some six or seven miles out of Arispe.
“True,” he admits, “nor would you see me now, only that this thing begins to look serious.”
“What thing?” asks the Colonel, half divining it.
“No news from Villanueva, I came to see if you’ve had any.”
“Not a word; and you’re right about it’s beginning to look serious. I was just talking of it to your son there, before you came in.”
They are in a large apartment in Colonel Requeñes’ official residence, his receiving-room, into which the ganadero has just been ushered; the son alluded to being there already, a youth of some sixteen summers, in military uniform, with sabretasche and other insignia proclaiming him an aide-de-camp. After greeting his father, he has resumed his seat by a table on which are several open despatches, with which he seems to busy himself.
“Por Dios! I cannot tell what to make of it,” pursues the ganadero; “they must have reached the mine, wherever it is, long ago. Time enough for word to have been brought back. And my sister not writing to me, that’s a puzzle! She promised she would soon as they got there.”
“And Villanueva himself promised he would write to me. Besides, the people, many of them, have left friends behind, relatives out in the neighbourhood of the old minera. Some of them are in Arispe every day, inquiring if there be any news of those gone north; so it’s clear they’ve had no word from them either.”
“What do you suppose can be the cause, Requeñes?”
“I’ve been trying to think. At first I fancied the great drought that’s been, with every stream and pond dried up, might have forced them out of their way for water, and so lengthened their journey. But even with that there’s been time enough for them to have reached their destination long since, and us to have heard of it. As we haven’t, I fear it’s something worse.”
“What’s your conjecture, Colonel?”
“I’m almost afraid to venture on conjectures, but they force themselves on me, Don Juliano; and in the one shape you will yourself, no doubt, be thinking of.”
“I comprehend. Los Indios!”
“Los Indios,” echoes the officer; “just that. Villanueva told me the new-discovered veta lies a long way to the north-west, beyond the headwaters of the Horcasitas. That’s all country claimed by the Apaches of different bands; as you know, every one of them determinedly hostile to the whites, especially to us Mexicans, for reasons you may have heard of.”
“I know all that; you allude to the affair of Gil Perez?”
“I do; and my fear is our friends may have encountered these red-handed savages. If so, Heaven have mercy on them, and God help them; for He only can.”
“Encountering them would mean being attacked by them?”
“Surely so; and destroyed if defeated: the men butchered, the women and children carried into captivity.”
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?”
“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.