Chapter Twenty Three.
A Ride in Mid-Air
It turns out just such a night as was wished for – moonless, still not obscurely dark. Too much darkness would defeat the end in view. They need light for the lowering down, a thing that will take some time with careful management.
But the miners are the very men for such purpose. Not one of them who has not dangled at a rope’s end in a shaft hundreds of feet sheer down into the earth. To them it is habitude – child’s play – as to him who spends his life scaling sea-coast cliffs for the eggs and young of birds.
It is yet early when the party entrusted with the undertaking assemble on the edge of the precipice, at the point where the daring adventurer is to make descent. Some carry coils of rope, others long poles notched at the end for fending the line off the rocks, while the gambusino is seen bearing a burden which differs from all the rest. A saddle and bridle it is; his own, cherished for their costliness, but now placed at the service of his young friend, to do what he will with them.
“I could ride Crusader without them,” says the English youth: “guide him with my voice and knees; but these will make it surer, and I thank you, Señor Vicente.”
“Ah, muchacho! if they but help you, how glad ’twill make me feel! If they’re lost, it wouldn’t be for that I’d grudge the twenty doblones the saddle cost me. I’d give ten times as much to see you seated in it on the plaza of Arispe.”
“I’ll be there, amigo, in less than sixty hours if Crusader hasn’t lost his strength by too long feeding on grass.”
“I fancy you need not fear that, señorito; your horse is one that nothing seems to affect. I still cling to the belief he’s the devil himself.”
“Better believe him an angel – our good angel now, as I hope he will prove himself.”
This exchange of speech between the two who have long been compagnons de chasse, is only an interlude occurring while the ropes are being uncoiled and made ready.
Instead of a loop to be passed around the adventurer’s body, a very different mode for his making descent has been pre-arranged. He is to take seat in the saddle, just as though it were on the back of a horse, and, with feet in the stirrups and hands clutching the cords that suspend it, be so let down. A piece of wood passed under the tree, and firmly lashed to pommel and cantle, will secure its equilibrium.
Finally all is ready, and, the daring rider taking his seat, is soon swinging in mid-air. Hand over hand they lower him down, slowly, cautiously, listening all the while for a signal to be sent up. This they get in due time – a low whistle telling them that he has reached the first ledge, though they could tell it by the strain upon the rope all at once having ceased.
Up it is drawn again, its owner himself, in turn, taking seat in it, to be lowered down as the other. Then again and again it is hoisted up and let down, till half a score of the miners, stalwart men, Robert Tresillian among them, stand on the bench below.
Now the saddle is detached and fastened on to another rope, when the same process is repeated; and so on, advantage being taken of the sloping ledges, till the last is arrived at.
Here it is but a repetition of what has gone before, only with a longer reach of rope; and here Pedro Vicente takes last leave of the youth who has become so endeared to him.
In the eye of the honest gambusino there is that not often seen there, a tear. He flings his arms around the English youth, exclaiming:
“Dios te guarda, muchacho valiente! (God guard you, my brave lad).”
The parting between the two is almost as affectionate as that between Henry and his father, the last saying, as he enfolds his son in his arms:
“God go with you, my noble boy!” In another moment the daring youth is once more in the saddle, going down, down, till he feels his feet upon the plain. Then stepping out of it, and sending up the preconcerted signal, he detaches saddle and bridle from the cords, leaving the latter to swing free.
Shouldering the horse gear with other impedimenta, he looks round to get his bearings, and, soon as satisfied about these, starts off over the plain in search of Crusader.
He is not the only one at that moment making to find the horse. From the Indian camp a picked party has issued forth, urged by the chief. For the new leader of the Coyoteros longs to possess that now famous steed as much as did the deceased one.
“Ten of my best mustangs, and as many of my mules, will I give for the black horse of the paleface. He who captures him may claim that reward.”
More than once has El Zopilote thus declared himself, exciting the ardour and cupidity of his followers. Withal they have chased Crusader in vain, over and over again, till in their superstitious fancy they begin to think him a phantom.
But as yet they have never tried to take him by night; and now, having ascertained the place where he usually passes the nocturnal hours, they start out in quest of him.
Not rashly nor incautiously; instead, they proceed deliberately, and with a preconceived plan, as though stalking game. Their intention is first to enfilade the animal at long distance off, then contract the circle, so as to have him sure.
In execution of their scheme, on reaching the western side of the lake, they divide into two parties. One moves along the mountain’s foot, dropping a file here and there; the other strikes out over the llano, in a circular line, as it proceeds doing the same.
It is too dark for them to see horse or other object at any great distance, so they take care that their circle be wide enough to embrace the stretch of pasture where the coveted animal is known to browse.
Noiselessly they execute the movement, going at a slow walk, lest the hoof-strokes of their horses may alarm the one they would enclose; and when the heads of the separated parties again come together, all know it by a signal agreed upon – the cry of the coyote transmitted along their line admonishes them that the cordon is complete.
Chapter Twenty Four.
Once More Upon Crusader
Henry Tresillian has hardly advanced a hundred yards from the cliff, when the Indian party, turning northward, passes close to the spot where he had been let down. Luckily not so close as to observe the rope still hanging there, and far enough from himself to hinder their seeing him. For the obscurity makes it impossible to distinguish objects unless very near.
Neither sees he them, nor has any suspicion of their dangerous proximity; and without stop or stay he keeps on towards the point where he expects to find his horse.
He goes not without a guide. At the latest hour of twilight he had seen Crusader about a mile off, in a direction due west; and although the night is dark, some of the stars are visible, among them the Polar. With this on his right shoulder he cannot mistake the way, so continues on in confidence.
He knows he will not need to go groping about, if the horse be still there, as it is hoped he is: a peculiarly intoned call with a whistle will bring him up from far as he can hear it. Many a time has his master, while hunting on the hills round Arispe, so summoned Crusader to his side.
He has advanced more than half a mile, and is thinking whether he shall not give the signal and put an end to all uncertainty. He should now be near enough for it to be heard, and it will tell him if the animal be still there or has wandered away to some other part of the llano. In the latter case all his labours will be lost, and no alternative left him but return to the cliff and get hoisted up again.
Still a thought holds him silent. The activity of the Indians, with their frequent patrol parties, more by night than by day, has long been a matter of curiosity and speculation among the miners. What if such a party be now out and within hearing? For he knows that to his voice Crusader will respond with a neigh, and that might undo all. Therefore, curbing his impatience, he proceeds on, silent as a spectre, his glances directed now this way, now that, endeavouring to penetrate the gloom.
All at once he hears the tramp of a horse, on the instant after seeing and recognising Crusader. To his surprise also; for the animal is not at rest or browsing, but moving excitedly about, every now and then uttering a snort, as though he scented danger. His master knows he himself cannot be the cause of this unlooked-for behaviour. The horse is up wind, and could not possibly be aware of his approach. What, then, is exciting him?
Wolves – coyotes? Yes, it must be that; and as a proof of its being so, just then he hears the whining howl of the jackals simultaneously all around.
Such a chorus resounding on every side seems odd, the more from its being heard for but a brief moment, then silence as before. But Henry Tresillian stays not to reflect on its oddity. He fears that the howling repeated may start Crusader into a stampede, and without further delay gives him that signal he knows will be answered. Answered it is, and instantly, by a neigh sent back in response; and in twenty seconds after the horse stands face to face with his young master, his velvet muzzle pressing the latter’s cheek. On one side there are words of endearment, on the other a low, joyous whimpering, as though the dumb brute was trying to speak its delight at their being together again.
Crusader opens his mouth to receive the bit, and seems almost to stoop for the saddle to be thrown over him. He is caparisoned in a trice; but just as Henry Tresillian, stooping to tighten the girths, gets the buckle into its hole, he hears that which causes him to rise erect, and clutch at the bridle: the sound of hoofs on all sides; horses evidently, with men upon their backs. Indians! – they can be no other!
Quick as thought he vaults into the saddle, and sets himself ready to make a dash.
In what direction? He knows that which he should take for Arispe. But is it open to him? This he cannot tell, nor, indeed, that any way is open to him. For he now hears the tramp of horses all around, and before he can resolve himself, sees the horses themselves. It has grown a little clearer, for the moon is about to rise, and Crusader’s neigh had guided the Indians to the spot.
If he stay, Henry Tresillian is conscious he will soon be encircled by a crowd with no chance to get clear of it. Already he sees its ring closing around him.
But the Indians are still some fifty yards distant, come to a halt; suddenly and with shouts of surprise, for they have sighted him. There is even terror in their accents, with awe in their hearts – awe of the supernatural. They supposed themselves making surround of a horse, when lo! there is a man upon his back, all in keeping with the mysterious character Crusader has obtained among those who have vainly chased him.
The young Englishman notes their strange behaviour, but without thought of the cause. He knows, however, they will not stay long at rest, and, by the better light, seeing a break in their line, sets his horse’s head for it, gives the word with touch of knee, and springs forward at full speed, determined to take his chance.
In a dozen strides he is between two of the Coyotero horsemen, when he feels his bridle arm suddenly drawn back and held tight to his body; then, with a quick jerk he is lifted clean out of the saddle and flung with violence to the earth!
Fortunately he is neither stunned nor loses consciousness, but has all his senses about him; he knows what has happened, and that he is in the noose of a lasso. But his right arm is free, and, instantly regaining his feet, he draws his knife, and, severing the cord in twain, releases himself.
It would have been to little purpose had his horse been other than he is. But the sagacious animal, seeming to comprehend all, instead of galloping away, has stayed by his side, and in another moment has its master on its back again.
With to all appearance a clear track before him now, the daring youth once more makes forward, favoured by the confusion that has arisen among the savages. In the dim light they are unable to distinguish the strange horseman from one of themselves, and their surprise is but increased with their superstitious terror, both holding them spellbound. They but cry out, and question one another, without making any effort to pursue.
Henry Tresillian begins to think himself safe away, when he sees one of the Coyoteros, who had lagged behind their line, come full tilt towards him in a gallop as himself. Before he can check his pace, their animals meet in violent collision, and the mustang of the Indian is flung back on its haunches, dismounting its rider. The man has his gun in hand, and, seeing a paleface, instinctively raises the piece, taking aim at him. But before he can touch the trigger, the English youth has also a piece levelled – a pistol, which cracks first; and the savage, uttering a wild agonised yell, staggers a pace or two, and falls backward on the grass.
With nothing more in his way now, his young master again gives Crusader the word, and off go they at highest race-course speed.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Up the Cliff Again
It is some time before the Indians recover from their mystification. Is the black horse flesh and blood, or a phantom?
Not until they have closed together and taken counsel of one another is this question resolved. The wiser of them affirm that in some way one of the palefaces must have got down the cliff, caught the horse, and mounted him. That the rider, at least, is a mortal being they have ample evidence in their comrade stretched dead upon the plain by a bullet.
The sight rekindles all their ire, and shouts of vengeance make the welkin ring. But only for a while. Silence again reigns, and the hoof-strokes of the retreating fugitive can be heard through the tranquil calm of the night, stirring them to pursuit.
Away go they in gallop after; but not all, nearly half of them turning their horses’ heads towards the cliff. For if the white men have let one of their number down, there should be some sign of it, which they proceed to search for.
Impossible to depict the feelings of those on the mesa, above all, the ones who have been standing on the ledges to await the result. They cannot have themselves hoisted up again till sure their messenger has either failed or got free, and from the moment of his parting from the cliff’s base, to them all had been uncertainty. Terrible suspense, too, from the very first; for although they saw not the Indians passing underneath, they heard their horses’ tread, now and then a hoof striking against stone, or in dull thud upon the hard turf. Though they could not make out what it meant, they knew it was something adverse – hostile. Horses would not be there without men on their backs, and these must be enemies.
Listening on, with hearts anxiously beating, they hear that strange concatenation of cries, the supposed howling of coyotes, all around the plain. It puzzles them, too; but before they have time to reflect on it a sound better understandable reaches their ears – the neighing of a horse – most of them recognising it as Crusader’s, for most are familiar with its peculiar intonation.
More intently than ever do they listen now, but for a time hear nothing more. Only a brief interval; then arise sounds that excite their apprehension to its keenest – voices of men, in confused clamouring, the accent proclaiming them Indians.
Robert Tresillian, still standing beside the gambusino on the lowest ledge, feels his heart sink within him, as he exclaims: “My poor boy! lost – lost!”
“Wait, señor,” says Vicente, with an effort to appear calm. “That’s not so sure. All’s not lost that’s in danger. If there be a chance of escape your brave son’s the very one to take advantage of it. Oiga! what’s that?”
His question has reference to another chorus of cries heard out on the plain; then a moment’s lull, succeeded by a crashing sound as of two heavy bodies brought into collision. After that a shot, quickly followed by a yell – a groan.
“A pistol!” exclaims the gambusino, “and sure the one Señorito Henrique took with him. I’ll warrant he’s made good use of it.”
The father is too full of anxious thought to make reply; he but listens on with all ears, and heart audibly pulsating.
Next to hear the hoof-strokes of a horse in gallop as if going off; which in a way cheers him: it may be his son escaped.
But then there is more confused clamour, with loud ejaculations – voices raised in vengeance; and after the trampling of other horses, apparently starting in pursuit.
What is to be done now? – draw up the rope, and have themselves drawn up? There seems no reason for their waiting longer. The messenger is either safe off, or has been captured; one way or the other he will not get back there. So they may as well reascend the cliff.
Besides, a thought of their own safety now forces itself upon them. A streak of light along the horizon admonishes them of the uprising moon. Already her precursory rays, reflected over the plain, begin to lighten the obscurity, rendering objects more distinct, and they now make out a dark mass on the llano below, a party of horsemen, moving in the direction of the mesa.
“We’d better pull up, Don Roberto,” says the gambusino; “they’re coming this way, and if they see the rope it will guide their eyes to ourselves, and we’re both lost men. They carry guns, and we’ll be within easy range, not over thirty yards from them. Por Dios! if they sight us we’re undone.”
Don Roberto makes neither protest nor objection. By this his son has either got clear or is captured: in either case, he cannot return to them. And, as his companion, he is keenly sensible to the danger which is now threatening, so signifies assent.
Silently they draw up the rope, and soon as it is all in their hands, signal to those above to hoist them also. First one, making it fast round his body, is pulled up; then the loop is let down, and the other ascends, raised by an invisible power above.
Four are now on the next ledge, and, by like course of proceeding are lifted one after another to that still higher, the sloping benches between helping them in their ascent. All is done noiselessly, cautiously; for the savages are now seen below in dark clump, stationary near the foot of the precipice.
They have reached the last bench, and so far unmolested, begin to think themselves out of danger,
But alas, no! The silence long prevailing is suddenly broken by a rock displaced and rolling down; while at the same moment the treacherous moon, showing over the horizon’s edge, reveals them to the eyes of the Indians.
Then there is a chorus of wild yells, followed by shots – a very fusillade; bullets strike the rocks and break fragments off, while other shots fired in return by those above into the black mass below instantly disperse it.
In the midst of all, the last man is drawn up to the summit, but when landed there, they who draw him up see that the rope’s noose is no longer round a living body, but a corpse, bleeding, riddled with bullets.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Distanced – No Danger Now
Finding himself clear of the Indians, Henry Tresillian’s heart beats high with hope; no mischance happening, he can trust Crusader to keep him clear. And now he turns his thoughts to the direction he should take. But first to that in which he is going, for he has galloped out of the encircling line through the nearest opening that caught his eye.
The foretaste of the moonlight enables him to see where he is – luckily, on the right track. The route to Arispe lies south-eastward, and the lake must be passed at its upper or lower end. The former is the direct route, the other around about; but then there is the Indian camp to be got past, and others of the savages may be up and about. Still the wagon corral is two or three hundred yards from the water’s edge, which may give him a chance to pass between unobserved, and, with unlimited confidence in his horse, he resolves upon risking it.
An error of judgment: he has not taken into account the fracas behind, with the report of his own pistol, and that all this must have been heard by the redskins remaining in camp. It has nevertheless. The consequence being that ere he has got half round the upper end of the lake, he sees the plain in front of him thickly dotted with dark forms – men on horseback – hears them shouting to one another. A glance shows him it is a gauntlet too dangerous to be run. The fleetness of his steed were no surety against gun-shots.
He reins up abruptly, and, with a wrench round, sets head west again, with the design to do what he should have done at first – turn the lake below.
The détour will be much greater now: he has passed a large elbow of it, which must be repassed to get around; but there is no alternative, and, regretting his mistake, he makes along the back track at best speed. Not far before finding further reason to be sorry for his blunder. On that side, too, he sees mounted men directly before him – those he had lately eluded. They are scattered all over the plain, apparently in search of him, some riding towards the lake’s lower end, thinking he has gone that way. But all have their eyes on him now, and place themselves in position to intercept him. His path is beset on every side, the triumphant cries of the Coyoteros proclaiming their confidence that they have him at last – sure to capture or kill him now. And his own heart almost fails him: go which way he will, it must be through a shower of bullets.
Again he reins up, and sits in his saddle undecided. The risk seems equal, but it must be run; there is no help for it.
Ha! yes, there is. A thought has flashed across his brain – a memory. He remembers having seen the camp animals wading the lake through and through; not over belly-deep. Why cannot Crusader?
With quick resolve he sets his horse’s head for the water, and in a second or two after the animal is up to the saddle-girths, plunging lightly as if it were but fetlock-deep.
Another cry from the Indians on both sides – surprise and disappointment mingled; in tones telling of their belief in the supernatural, and come back.
But soon they, too, recall the shallowness of the lake, and see nothing strange in the fugitive attempting to escape across it. So, without loss of time, they again put their horses to speed, making to head him on its eastern shore.
They are as near as can be to succeeding. A close shave it is for the pursued messenger, who, on emerging from the water, sees on either flank horsemen hastening towards him. But he is not dismayed. Before any of them are within shot range he dashes onward; Crusader, with sinews braced by the cool bath, showing speed which ensures him against being overtaken.
He is pursued, nevertheless. The subtle savages know there are chances and mischances. One of the latter may arise in their favour; and hoping it will be so, they continue the chase.
The moon is now up, everything on the level llano distinguishable for miles, and the black horse with his pale-faced rider is still less than twenty lengths ahead; so after him they go, fast as their mustangs can be forced.
Only to find that in brief time the twenty lengths have become doubled, then trebled, till in fine they see that it is fruitless to carry the pursuit further.
With hearts full of anger and chagrin, they give it up. Some apprehension have they as well. El Zopilote is not with them; what will he say on their returning empty-handed? what do? For it is now no mere matter of the catching of a horse; instead, more serious – a courier gone off to bring succour to the besieged.
Down-hearted and dejectedly they turn their horses’ heads, and ride back for Nauchampa-tepetl.
Had the Coyoteros stuck to their faith in the probability of accidents and continued the pursuit, they might have overtaken Henry Tresillian after all. For scarce have they turned backs upon him when a mishap befalls him, not absolutely staying him in his course, but delaying him wellnigh an hour. He is making to regain the road which runs north from Arispe, at the point where the caravan, forced by want of water, had deflected from it to the Cerro Perdido. In daylight he could have ridden straight to it; for since then from the mesas summit Pedro Vicente had pointed to guide-marks indicating the spot where his initials were carved upon the palmida. But in his haste now, amid the glamour of a newly-risen moon, the messenger has gone astray, only discovering it when his horse suddenly staggering forward comes down upon his knees, shooting him out of the saddle.
He is less hurt than surprised. Never before has Crusader made false step or stumble, and why now?
A moment reveals the reason: the ground has given way beneath, letting him down knee-deep into a hole, the burrow of some animal.
Fortunately, there are no bones broken, no damage done either to horse or rider; and the latter, recovering his seat in the saddle, essays to proceed. Soon to be a second time brought to a stand, though not now unhorsed. Crusader but lurches, keeping his legs, though again near going down.
The young Englishman perceives what it is: he is riding through a warren of the kind well known on the plains of Western America as “a prairie-dog town or village.” In the moonlight he sees the hillocks of these marmots all around, with the animals themselves squatting on them; hears their tiny squirrel-like bark, intermingling with the hoot of the quaint little owl which shares their subterranean habitations.
Once more at halt, he again bethinks himself what is best to do. Shall he ride back and go round the village, or continue on across it, taking the chances of the treacherous ground?
He listens, soon to become assured that the pursuit has been abandoned, thus giving him choice to act deliberately, and do as seems best to him.
Around the dog town may be miles, while direct to the other side may be only a few score yards. They are often of oblong shape, extending far, but of little breadth, possibly because of the condition of the ground and the herbage it produces.
Having ridden into it, he resolves to keep on; but to his great annoyance and disgust finds it to extend far beyond the limits of his patience; and as Crusader’s hoofs break through the hollow crust, it becomes necessary to alight and lead him.
At length, however, he is out of it, and again on firm ground, with the level llano far stretching before him. But in the distance he discerns a mountain ridge, trending north and south, lit up by the moon’s light, along which, as he knows, lies the route to Arispe.
“We’re on the right road now, my noble Crusader, with no fear of being followed. And we must make it short as possible. The lives of many depend on that – on your speed, brave fellow. So let us on.”
Crusader responds with one of his strangely-intoned whimperings – almost speech. Then stands motionless, till his young master is in the saddle; after which he again goes off in a gallop, ventre à terre.