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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s between un.o.bserved, 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 _detour_ will be much greater now: he has pa.s.sed a large elbow of it, which must be repa.s.sed 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 sh.o.r.e.
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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 a.s.sured 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 n.o.ble 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 a terre_.
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 pa.s.s 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 ma.s.s, 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 pa.s.s behind the abutment of rock, disappearing from the view of those on the _mesa_.
By the besieged ones the day is pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble 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 senorito 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, _nina 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.