Chapter Thirty Three.
The Thunder Guns
As is their custom, the savages advance with loud cries and gestures of menace, intended to terrify their antagonists.
They have got several miles out from the mountain, and almost within charging distance, when they see that which brings them to sudden halt – a thing above all others dreaded by the American aboriginal – cannon “thunder guns” – as they call them. The brass howitzers, hitherto screened by the vanguard of cavalry, have been thrown to the front, instantly unlimbered, and so brought under their eyes. Then a flash, a vomiting of flame and smoke, a loud ringing report, followed by the hurtling of a shell in its flight through the air. It drops in their midst and instantly explodes, its severed fragments dealing death around.
Too much this for Coyotero courage; and without waiting for other like destructive missiles to follow, they turn tail and gallop back towards the camp. Not that they have any hope of safety there, for they believe the great thunder guns can reach them anywhere, and their flight towards it is but the impulse of a confused fear.
The sentries, seeing them in retreat, alike frightened by the report of the howitzers, forsake their posts, each hastening towards a horse – his own.
For a time the captive women are unguarded, seemingly forgotten. It gives the gambusino a cue; and, acting upon it, he again calls out as before in the Opata tongue,
“Sisters! now’s your time! Up and out of the corral; make round to the lake, fast as you can run, and on into the ravine. There you’ll find friends to meet you.”
Listening to his counsel, as one the captive women resolve to act upon it; for they are now cognisant of what is going on, and fully comprehend the situation.
The result, a rush out of the enclosure all together, and a race round to the spot indicated by that friendly voice above.
They reach it, to find there the man himself, with over two-score others around him. For the gambusino, seeing how things stood, and that the besiegers had their hands full elsewhere, has hurried down the gorge, all the fighting men of the miners’ party along with him.
It is but a moment to place the escaped captives behind the rocks standing thick all around; then, screening themselves by the same, they await the coming of the savages. But these come not; enough have they to do looking out for their own safety. The howitzers, now near, are belching forth their bombs, that burst here and there, dealing death in their ranks.
With the redskins it is no longer a question of resistance or fight, but flight, sauve qui peut. And without thought of taking along with them either spoils or captives, they deem it enough if they can but save their own lives.
They are all on horseback now, their chief at their head, who in loud command calls upon them to follow him – not to the charge, but in retreat.
First they flee northward; but short is their ride in that direction. Scarce have they commenced it, when they see in front of them a body of horse, seemingly numerous as that they are retreating from.
Shall they meet it, or turn back? The thunder guns are still more than a mile from the abandoned camp, and they will have time to repass it.
Promptly deciding to do so, they wheel round and gallop back, ventre à terre; not slowing pace nor drawing rein till they have reached the western elbow of the lake. Then only coming to a stop perforce at sight of still another party of palefaces there to confront them.
Intercepted, threatened on every side by a far superior force, they now know themselves in a trap. Panic stricken, they would surrender and cry for quarter, but well are they aware it would not be given. So, as wolves brought to bay, they at length determine on fighting – to the death.
For many of them, death it is. Beset on all sides, in the midst of a circle of fire, bombs exploding and bullets raining through their ranks, they make but a despairing resistance; which ends in half their number being killed and the other half taken prisoner.
The rescuers are now in possession of the camp, animals, everything. But the first to reach the bottom of the ravine is he who has guided them thither, Henry Tresillian; there to receive a shower of thanks and blessings, his father pressing him to his bosom, which alike beats with joy and pride. And the gambusino embraces him, too, crying out,
“I see you’ve brought back my saddle, señorito; and after the service it has done, I hope you’ll never consent to part with it. Bridle and saddle both, I make you a present of them; which I trust you’ll do me the honour to accept.”
This draws the attention of all upon Crusader standing by, who in turn becomes the recipient of an ovation.
But his young master stays not to witness it. Up on the summit is one who occupies all his thoughts, claiming him now; and up bounds he with lighter heart than he ever before made that ascent.
“Henrique!”
“Gertrudes!” are the exchanged exclamations of the youthful lovers, as they become locked in each other’s arms, their lips meeting in a kiss of rapturous joy.
All congratulations over, the corralled wagons are once more in possession of their owners. Scarce any damage has been done to the mining machinery or tools; the Indians, from neglect or ignorance of their uses, not having thought it worth while to destroy them. And for the animals and chattels they had carried off, there is ample compensation in those now taken from them – enough to furnish the wagons with fresh teams, re-establish the pack-train, in short, put the caravan in order for resuming the march. Which it does, after a couple of days spent in getting things into condition for the route, when it continues on to its original destination, the gambusino still with it as guide.
On the same day Requeñes starts out on return to Arispe, taking the Coyotero prisoners along with him; while Don Juliano and his valiant vaqueros charge themselves with the task of restoring the women of Nacomori to their homes.
When all are gone, and the Lost Mountain again left to tranquillity and solitude, it is for days the scene of a spectacle telling of the terrible strife which had occurred. The wolves and coyotes have gathered from afar, and over the bodies of the slain savages left unburied, with those of their horses killed in the encounter, hold riot and revel.
There, too, are the black vultures, some in the air, some on the ground, in flocks so thick as to darken both earth and sky. They anticipated a plenteous repast – they have not been disappointed.
Chapter Thirty Four.
At the Altar
The last scene of our tale lies in the pueblita of Santa Gertrudes; a mining village chiefly supported by the minera bearing the same name, whose works, with the specialities of crushing-sheds, smelting-houses, and tall chimneys, are seen just outside its suburbs.
All have a modern look, as well they may. On the ground where they stand, but three years before grew a thick chapparal of mezquite, cactus, yucca, and other plants characteristic of desert vegetation. For Santa Gertrudes is in the very heart of the Sonora desert, remote from any other civilised settlement.
Its prosperity, however, has attracted settlers; for not only does the population of the village itself receive constant increase, but many fertile tracts in the country around have been taken up, and are occupied by a goodly number of graziers and agriculturists, whose chief purpose is to supply the comestibles required by the miners and their dependants.
The growth of Santa Gertrudes has been remarkably rapid, almost unprecedently so. From the first opening of the mine, every vein worked has proved a bonanza, enriching the owners, Don Estevan Villanueva and Robert Tresillian. For it is the vela discovered, denounced, and made over to them by Pedro Vicente.
The gold-seeker himself has also become rich, by the conditions already mentioned as attached to the conveyance of the property. In short, all concerned have benefited thereby – every one of that travelling party delayed, with lives endangered, on the summit of the Cerro Perdido.
In and around Santa Gertrudes – name bestowed in honour of the Señora Villanueva and her daughter, or rather their patroness saint – is every evidence of advancement. The cottages of the miners are trim and clean, the shops that supply them showing an abundance of goods, even to articles of luxe and adornment. A pretty capella, with spire and belfry, stands central by the side of the public square, for, as in all Spanish-American towns, Santa Gertrudes has its plaza.
Two other sides of the same are occupied by houses of superior pretension, with ornamental grounds – the respective residences of Don Estevan and his English partner – while here and there a house larger and better than the common denotes the dwelling of an official of the minera, some head of a department.
On this day Santa Gertrudes is en fête. Its plaza is full of people; the miners in their gala dresses, and, mingling with them, rancheros– the new settlers from the country around – resplendent in their picturesque costume. Soldiers, too, mix with the crowd, in the gay uniform of the Zacatecas Lancers. For Colonel Requeñes and his regiment, on return from an expedition to the northern frontier, have halted at the pueblita, and are encamped on the plain outside. The tall chimneys of the minera send forth no smoke, no sound proceeds from the crushing-sheds or the smelting-houses; all is silent, and work suspended as if it were a Sunday.
Different with the capilla, from whose belfry comes a continual clanging of bells – merry bells – marriage bells. Nor needs any one telling who are to be wedded. All know that the owners are about to enter into relations different from that of a mere commercial partnership; that Gertrudes Villanueva is about to become the wife of Henry Tresillian.
The hour for the happy union has at length arrived, and from the two grand houses on the plaza issue the bride and bridegroom – each with their train of attendants – and take their way to the capella, amidst the enthusiastic plaudits of the assembled people, who cry out:
“Viva la novia linda! Viva el novio valiente—nuestro Salvador!” (Long live the beautiful bride! Long live the gallant bridegroom – our saviour!)
Inside the church the ceremony proceeds, relatives and friends from afar assisting at it; among them Don Juliano Romero, and of course, also, Colonel Requeñes. And there is one present who not only disapproves of the marriage, but would forbid it, were it only in his power. This the young cornet of lancers, Colonel Requeñes’ aide-de-camp, now a captain, who stands among the spectators, with an expression upon his features telling of a heart torn with jealousy.
How different is that on the face of Pedro Vicente, luminous with delight! Joyed and proud is he to see his young protégé of the chase attain the desire of his heart, in its fullest happiness.
The procession returns to the house of the bride’s father, followed by the crowd, again vociferating, “Viva la novia linda! Viva el novio valiente!”
Then the pre-arranged sports of the day commence on a grassy plain outside the pueblita. There is correr el gallo (running the cock), colear el toro (baiting the bull), with other feats of equitation, in which Crusader bears a conspicuous part. Ridden by a famous domidor– his owner for once but a looker-on – the beautiful black wins every prize, in speed outstripping all horses on the ground.
The Lancer band makes music in accompaniment; and over an improvised pavilion, ornamented with evergreens, in which stand the chief spectators, waves the national flag – that same bit of bunting which, three years before, was run up as a signal of distress on the Lost Mountain.