Майн Рид
The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora
Chapter Eleven.
A Camp without Occupants
The gambusino has guessed everything aright, if words spoken in the confidence of knowledge can be called guesses. True they prove, to the spirit as the letter; for it is just that unaccustomed spectacle of wheeled vehicles with their white canvas covers that caused the Indians to keep their deploying line so far aloof, and bring it to a halt for deliberation. Notwithstanding their being masters of all that desert country, lords of the llanos, they themselves do not always traverse it without difficulties to encounter and dangers to dread. The wagons proclaim the camp occupied by white men; and knowing these to be ordinary travellers, miners on the move, or commerciantes on a trading expedition to the frontier towns, the Coyoteros would little regard them – certainly not enough to have made that long détour with so much delay in approaching them. But it may be a military encampment; and if so, will need to be dealt with differently – hence their unwonted caution.
Soon as the two bands became conjoined, El Cascabel had summoned his sub-chiefs around him, to take their opinions upon this point. For among Indians the head chief is not armed with despotic authority, but must submit his intended course of action to the approval of his following, even when on the maraud. And as the gambusino rightly conjectured, this it was which occupied them at that temporary halt.
A question without difficulty, and soon decided. In the negative as regarded the camp being occupied by soldiers. Were it so, men in uniform would be observable around it; whereas none such are seen. Nor human form of any kind; only animals – horses, and mules, with horned cattle commingled – all careering madly about as if masterless, or escaped from their masters’ control.
This might seem an odd circumstance, yet it does not to the savages. From experience they know that all animals belonging to the palefaces become affrighted at their own proximity – often to break from their fastenings, however secure. Such a scare is likely what they see now.
All the more does it assure them they will not have to deal with soldados. These would have their horses under better discipline, would indeed by this time be on their backs, at least some of them.
Satisfied of its being a camp of civilians, at a signal sent along their line the red horsemen make a move forward, their files becoming thicker as the cordon contracts into nearer and narrower curve. Still they advance slowly, not through fear or want of confidence, but because they feel sure their enfiladement is complete, and their victims enclosed. But another idea rules their cautious approach. A splendid prize is before them in that large ca Callada, and to ride hurriedly in might lead to the loose animals breaking through their ranks, and scattering off over the plain, with after difficulty of capturing them. For just then they might have enough to do with their owners. Besides, there can be no surprise. The occupants of the camp, whoever they be, must have seen them long since, and are watching them now, though not one of themselves can be seen. Nothing so strange in this; they are inside the wagon enclosure, screened by the ridge of alparejas that form a sort of breastwork around it. And the ruck of frightened animals rushing to and fro between further prevents view of them. The more reason for deliberate approach, this attitude of the white men telling of an intention to stand upon the defence.
Becoming convinced of this, the Indians give up thought of immediate attack. They will wait for the night’s darkness to give them a better opportunity; and when at such a distance as they deem beyond longest gun range, they again come to a halt.
They would dismount, holding their horses in readiness; and some are already on the ground. But before all alight, a word is sent along their circular line, ordering them up again. Something has transpired to give cause for a change of purpose.
Soon they know what, seeing that the camp animals have retreated back beyond the wagons up into an embayment of the cliff, where they stand in a clump, cowering and still showing scare, but at rest. It is not that, however, which has made the Coyoteros re-mount, but because their view of the camp now being clear they still cannot see human beings in or around it. With eyes bent in keenest quest between the corralled wagons, through the spokes of their wheels, all along the periphery of pack-saddles, nothing in the shape of human form or face can they make out. Yet the sun is in their favour, and if such was there they could not fail seeing it. Puzzled are the savages now, and for the first time – since it is the first time for them to have such an experience. For the moment it even mystifies them, and thoughts of the supernatural come creeping into their minds. They know Nauchampa-tepetl to be a place of weird repute, so figuring in many a record and legend of their race. And now to see a camp there, a camp of the palefaces, with every appointment appertaining, wheeled vehicles drawn up in corral with a grand tent inside – for the marquee, still standing, is conspicuous through a break between the wagons – with all the animals that should be there, and yet no man, no one seeming to own or control them, that is certainly strange, to the point of astonishment – even awe!
And for a time it so affects the savage warriors, their chief not excepted. But only for a time. Notwithstanding his ghostly coat-of-arms, El Cascabel is but little the slave of superstition; and, after a moment’s reflection, feels satisfied there are palefaces in the camp, though invisible to the view of him and his. In that, as the reader knows, he is wrong; but right in the way he takes to test it.
It may seem the veriest grotesquerie here to introduce that venerated weapon, known as the “Queen Anne musket,” yet the truthfulness of this record requires its introduction.
For strange as it may appear, this historical piece, with all its imperfections, has found its way to every corner of the world; even into the hands of the Apache Indians. How they became possessed of it needs but a word of explanation, which is, that they had it – took it – from their hereditary enemies, the Mexicans – from the infanterio of that nation, armed with the old condemned “Queen Anne’s” of London Tower celebrity.
Leaving this necessary digression, and returning to the Coyoteros – more especially to their chief, we hear him call out to those of his followers who carry the ancient firelock, giving them orders to advance some paces and send shots into the white man’s camp.
Dismounting, they do so, aiming at the wagons and tent inside, so correctly that their big bullets, an ounce in weight, are seen to hit the mark. But without effect following, any more than if their shots were meant for the façade of cliff beyond, whose rocks echo back the reports of the antiquated pieces, as if in hilarious mockery.
Chapter Twelve.
The Chase of Crusader
By El Cascabel’s orders, repeatedly are the big muskets re-loaded and fired into the corral, till every wagon has had a bullet through it, and the tent is pierced in several places. But all with the same effect, the shots eliciting no other response than their own echoes. Now the Indians know for sure that the camp is unoccupied; and, but for their foreknowledge of the topography of the place, would be mystified indeed. But most of them have themselves been on the summit of Nauchampa-tepetl, and their eyes turn interrogatively towards it. Thither the white men must have retreated, leaving everything below.
They see nothing, however; not as much as a face. For Don Estevan has directed those by the head of the gorge to keep well under cover, in hopes of tempting the savages to an ascent in the face of his formidable battery.
But the Coyotero chief is too astute for that, knowing, moreover, that there is no chance for the despised enemy to escape him. Wrathful he is withal, at having been in a way outwitted, angry at himself for having made the surround so slowly. It will cost him a siege, he knows not how long, interfering with the expedition to the Horcasitas, perhaps to its abandonment. But there is some compensation in the plunder so unexpectedly come upon, and from what he sees it should be an ample one. Six large wagons with a grand tienda – litera also – visible, to say nothing of the numerous animals, a travelling party so well-appointed should also have commodities in correspondence, promising a rich prize.
The camp is good as captured already; but instead of hastening on to take possession, he proceeds slowly and systematically as ever; for nothing can be gained by speed now, and some thing may be lost – the loose animals. They are still crowded up in the embayment between the cliffs, but with heads aloft and ears apeak, neighing, snorting, and restless, as if about to make a break.
“Leave aside arms, all – guns, and spears!” commands the chief. “Get ready the riatas!”
All together drop down from their horses, those who carry spears sticking them upright in the ground, those with firelocks laying them along it. Any impedimenta of baggage and accoutrements are also pulled off and flung beside. Then they vault back upon their animals, each with but his trail-rope carried in coil over the left arm, to be used as a lazo.
Thus disencumbered and equipped, they at length advance, not for the camp, but the caballada; but ere they can close up the mouth of the cove the white men’s animals become more affrighted than ever, and make the burst they had been threatening – horses, mules, and oxen all together. With a noise of thunder, the ground echoes the tread of their hundreds of hooves, as in frenzied madness they rush out for the open plain. Little chance would there be of their reaching it but that the Indian horses catch the stampede, too, many of them becoming unmanageable. The enfilading line is broken, and through its riven ranks the camp animals sweep as a hurricane. One is in the lead – a large horse, coal-black, on whom many an Indian had set eye, with lazo ready for his capture. Crusader it is, his neigh heard above all others, as, with head on high, mane tossed, and tail streaming afar, he dashes at the severed line; again uttered, as it were exultingly, when, having cleared it, he sees no enemy before him. Half a dozen nooses are flung at and after him, all ill-directed; all fall short, and slide from his glistening flanks, while as many disappointed cries follow him in chorus.
All is scamper and confusion now; the surround has failed, the stampede taken place, and the stampeded animals, such as succeeded in getting off – for not all went clear – can only be captured after a chase. But the Indian horses quickly get over their scare, and are laid on the pursuit till a stream of them stretches out on the llano. Fresher and in better condition than the camp animals, these are soon overtaken and noosed, now one, now another, till at length only a single horse is seen beyond the pursuing line.
Followed still, but so far beyond it, at each bound widening the distance, that a pair of eyes watching the chase, at first apprehensively, now sparkle with delight. For they are the eyes of his own master, Henry Tresillian, standing on the mesa’s summit behind a screening tree.
Half a score of the savages still continue the pursuit, among them their chief himself. For he would give much to be the owner of that matchless steed, and now strains his own to the utmost. All in vain. Crusader forges farther and farther away, till he is but a speck upon the plain. Then the baffled pursuers, one after another, give up discouraged, at length El Cascabel also coming to a stop, and turning to ride back with an air of angry disappointment.
The English youth, yielding to a thrill of proud exultation, waves his cap in the air, giving utterance to a triumphant “Hurrah!”
“I’m so glad he’s got away from them,” he says, to Vicente, by his side; “wherever he may go or whatever become of him. My noble Crusader! But wasn’t it clever? Wasn’t it grand?”
“Wonderful!” responds the gambusino, alike moved to admiration. “I never saw horse behave so in all my born life. Santissima! he must be a witch, if not the demonio himself.”
The Indians, leading back the captured animals, and recovering their arms, no longer delay entering the camp. Which, to their chagrin, they find not only abandoned, but wellnigh despoiled, as if other plunderers had been there before them! That much has been carried off, and of course of the most valuable kind, is evinced by boxes broken open, bales unroped and the contents extracted, with here and there empty spaces in the wagons, where evidently something had been stored. There is little left for them save the refuse, or effects of a nature to be of no use to them. What care they for mining tools and machinery?
More than ever are they angry and regretful of their ill-judged delay; but vow deadlier vengeance, when the time comes for it.
Still that may not be soon. The very fashion of retreat shows it to have been made with deliberation, and that the white men intend standing a siege, with the hopes and the wherewithal to hold out ever so long. And they, the Indians, knowing the danger of breasting that steep in the face of resolute defenders, have no thought of attempting it. But the goods that have been carried up must remain there, and sooner or later fall into their hands.
So consoling themselves, the new occupants of the camp settle down to the siege, after having secured their animals – both their own and those they have just come into possession of. All are put out to grass, “hoppled” or tethered on trail-ropes. Then the fires, found smouldering, are replenished with fresh fuel, and blaze up brightly as ever, with spits and roasting joints all round them.
This day the Coyoteros dine on beef, instead of their customary diet of mezcal and baked horseflesh. And a plenteous repast they make. Not for a long time have they had such an opportunity of gormandising. In their desert land of Apacheria provisions are scarce – often to starvation-point; and they now feast gluttonously, as if to make up for many a fast.
Nor are they without drinkables, though none brought they along with them. In a corner of one of the wagons is a cask – which on being tapped is found to be filled with chingarita– a fiery spirit distilled from the very plant, chief staple of their food – the mezcal. The Coyoteros know it well, and though they do not themselves distil, they drink it, and are so fond of it as to wonder why the cask is there, and not also carried up the mountain!
Drawn out, and rolled to the middle of the corral, they dance in delight around it, repeatedly quaffing from their calabash cups, with such an accompaniment of noises that the camp, lately occupied by men and women, might seem to have come into the possession of devils.
And so on till night. Then demon-like indeed are the forms seen flitting around its fires, and as much the faces, lit up by the red glare from blazing fagots of mezquite and piñon– both resinous trees. Still more the discordant sounds, a chorus of cries and ejaculations, in mad wild yelling, as of Bedlam broke loose.
Chapter Thirteen.
A Retributive Shot
It is midnight, and darkness over mountain and plain; pitch darkness, although there is a moon in the sky. But she is not visible, obscured by a bank of thick cumulus clouds, that have rolled up from the Californian Gulf – portent of an approaching rain-storm.
The savages have gone to rest; or, at all events, brought their noisy revelry to an end, and silence reigns everywhere around, save now and then a snort from a miner’s horse, or mule, with a stamp of hoof, uneasy in their new companionship; the half howl, half bark of prowling coyote, and the wailing of chuck-will’s widow – the nightjar of Sonora – hawking for insects high over the lake. But no sound of human voice is heard, nor through the inky blackness can be seen form of man.
Yet not all are asleep, either above or below. On the plain is a line of sentries, set at distances apart on the outer edge of the triangular space where the path goes up; and inside this, by the bottom of the gorge itself, two other men, though not on sentinel duty.
All Indians, of course; one of the pair by themselves being El Cascabel, the other a sub-chief, his second in command. They are there on reconnoitring purposes, to discover whether it be possible for the besiegers to make the ascent on a dark night unseen, and so take the besieged by surprise.
Since settling down in camp the Rattlesnake has reflected, and a thought is now in his mind making him uneasy. Not regret for having to forego his raid on the settlements of the Horcasitas. Unlikely that the siege would take up any more time, and the booty alone should be ample compensation. For he has made study of the abandoned camp, found every indication of wealth, and feels sure it late held rich treasures. They would reward him for the time lost in beleaguering. And as to the revenge, a whole company of miners – nigh a hundred at least – with their wives and daughters, grand señoras among them too – death to the men, and captivity to the women – that should satisfy the keenest vengeance.
And perhaps it would his, were he sure of accomplishing it. He was before the sun went down, but is not now. For, since, he has thought of that which had not then occurred to him or to any of his following. Might not the miners have sent off a courier back to their own country, with a demand for help? If so, it would surely come; in strength sufficient, and soon enough to raise the siege. For the head men of the besieging force now know it will be a prolonged one. The fragments of provisions found in the wagons tell of a good store taken out of them and up. Game is there in abundance to supplement it, and water never-failing – a fortress in every way supplied. Not so strange, then, the Coyotero chief being nervous at the thought of a courier having been dispatched. For one might, without having been seen by him or his. A long distance it was from where they themselves must have been first sighted by those on the mountain.
But for the obscurity, there are those on it who would see himself and his second now. By the head of the gorge above a party of miners keep guard. They have just come on duty, the relief after a spell of sleep. For Don Estevan, by old experience, knowing there was no clanger of Indian attack in the earlier hours, had entrusted the guard-keeping of these to the more common men. Between midnight and morning is the time to “’ware redskin,” and the guard of this period, now commenced, has been confided to a picked party, two of those composing it being Pedro Vicente and his fidus achates, Henry Tresillian.
Guard it can scarce be called, being only a small vidette-picket. For there is little fear – scarce a thought – that the Indians will attempt the ascent, at least not so soon, or without gravely reflecting upon it.
“Perhaps never at all,” says the gambusino, in confabulation with his fellow-watchers. “And why should they? They must be well aware of the chances against them. Besides, having got us as fish in a net, they’re not likely to leap into the water themselves, where they know there are tiburones (sharks).”
Vicente has had a spell at pearl-diving in the Gulf, hence his simile drawn from the sea.
“Ay, tintoreros– these,” he adds, specifying the most dreaded of the squaline tribe, with hand caressingly rested on one of the large stones alongside which he is lying. “I only wish they would try it, the Rattlesnake leading. ’Twould give me just the opportunity I want to pay that artist off for the bit of bad engraving – he did on my breast – by hurling one of these beauties at his head. Malraya! I may never have the chance to settle that score – not likely now.”
The final words, uttered in a tone of angry disappointed vengeance, are followed by an interval of silence. For the new videttes, having just entered on their duty, deem it wise, before aught else, to make themselves acquainted with how matters are below. They are all in recumbent attitude, ventre à terre, behind the parapet of loose stones. For having witnessed that long-range practice with the “Queen Annes,” it occurs to them that a big bullet may at any moment come whizzing up the gorge, and just as well be out of its way. So elevating but their eyes over, they look cautiously down. To see nothing – not even the plain, nor yet the lake; to hear nothing which proceeds from human kind; but they know the savages are on the alert, with sentries aligned below, and for a time continue to listen.
At length, satisfied there is nothing which calls for their vigilance being kept on the strain, Vicente draws out his cajoncito of corn-husk cigarittos, lights one, and sets to smoking. His comrades of the watch do likewise; and the English youth, long since initiated into the ways of the country, smokes too, only his weed is a Havannah.
Not many minutes are they thus occupied when the gambusino, chancing to turn his eyes south-westward, sees what makes him spit the cigaritto from his mouth, and gaze intently. The object is up in the sky; a slight rift just opened in the bank of cloud, edged yellowish-white. The moon must be near it —is near it, and now in it! for while they are still regarding the blue spot, she shoots suddenly out from the black, as arrow from bow.
Instantly night’s darkness is turned into light as of day; every object on the llano, even the smallest, made visible for miles upon miles, up to the horizon’s verge. But their eyes go not so far, least of all those of Pedro Vicente, who at the first flash from the unveiled moon catches sight of that which arrests his straying glances, fixing them fast. Not the line of sentries, though he sees them too; but a pair of figures inside and closer, up nigh the point where the path steps upon the plain. One of them, recognised, rivets his gaze by a token of identification unmistakable – a death’s head in white chalk, which, with the moon full upon it, gleams conspicuous against a background of bronze.
“Carria! El Cascabel!” he mechanically mutters, in tone of exultation; and without saying another word, or waiting another second, brings his rifle to shoulder, the stock to his cheek, with muzzle deep depressed.
A blaze – a crack – and the bullet is sped. A cry of agony from below – another of anger in voice different – proclaims its course true, and that the mark aimed at has been hit.
He who fired the shot knows that, by sight as well as sound. For he sees – all see – a man reeling, staggering, about to fall, and another with arms outstretched, as if partly in surprise, partly with intent to support him.
Only for an instant is the spectacle under their eyes. For suddenly as she showed herself, the moon disappears with a plunge into the opaque clouds, leaving all dark as before.
