CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
UP THE CLIFF AGAIN.
It is some time before the Indians recover from their mystification. Isthe black horse flesh and blood, or a phantom?
Not until they have closed together and taken counsel of one another isthis question resolved. The wiser of them affirm that in some way oneof the palefaces must have got down the cliff, caught the horse, andmounted him. That the rider, at least, is a mortal being they haveample evidence in their comrade stretched dead upon the plain by abullet.
The sight rekindles all their ire, and shouts of vengeance make thewelkin ring. But only for a while. Silence again reigns, and thehoof-strokes of the retreating fugitive can be heard through thetranquil calm of the night, stirring them to pursuit.
Away go they in gallop after; but not all, nearly half of them turningtheir horses' heads towards the cliff. For if the white men have letone of their number down, there should be some sign of it, which theyproceed to search for.
Impossible to depict the feelings of those on the _mesa_, above all, theones who have been standing on the ledges to await the result. Theycannot have themselves hoisted up again till sure their messenger haseither failed or got free, and from the moment of his parting from thecliff's base, to them all had been uncertainty. Terrible suspense, too,from the very first; for although they saw not the Indians passingunderneath, they heard their horses' tread, now and then a hoof strikingagainst stone, or in dull thud upon the hard turf. Though they couldnot 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 beenemies.
Listening on, with hearts anxiously beating, they hear that strangeconcatenation of cries, the supposed howling of coyotes, all around theplain. It puzzles them, too; but before they have time to reflect on ita sound better understandable reaches their ears--the neighing of ahorse--most of them recognising it as Crusader's, for most are familiarwith its peculiar intonation.
More intently than ever do they listen now, but for a time hear nothingmore. Only a brief interval; then arise sounds that excite theirapprehension to its keenest--voices of men, in confused clamouring, theaccent proclaiming them Indians.
Robert Tresillian, still standing beside the _gambusino_ on the lowestledge, feels his heart sink within him, as he exclaims: "My poor boy!lost--lost!"
"Wait, senor," says Vicente, with an effort to appear calm. "That's notso sure. All's not lost that's in danger. If there be a chance ofescape 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 theplain; then a moment's lull, succeeded by a crashing sound as of twoheavy bodies brought into collision. After that a shot, quicklyfollowed by a yell--a groan.
"A pistol!" exclaims the _gambusino_, "and sure the one SenoritoHenrique 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 listenson 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--voicesraised in vengeance; and after the trampling of other horses, apparentlystarting 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 iseither safe off, or has been captured; one way or the other he will notget back there. So they may as well reascend the cliff.
Besides, a thought of their own safety now forces itself upon them. Astreak of light along the horizon admonishes them of the uprising moon.Already her precursory rays, reflected over the plain, begin to lightenthe obscurity, rendering objects more distinct, and they now make out adark mass on the _llano_ below, a party of horsemen, moving in thedirection of the _mesa_.
"We'd better pull up, Don Roberto," says the _gambusino_; "they'recoming this way, and if they see the rope it will guide their eyes toourselves, and we're both lost men. They carry guns, and we'll bewithin easy range, not over thirty yards from them. _Por Dios_! if theysight us we're undone."
Don Roberto makes neither protest nor objection. By this his son haseither got clear or is captured: in either case, he cannot return tothem. And, as his companion, he is keenly sensible to the danger whichis 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 fastround his body, is pulled up; then the loop is let down, and the otherascends, raised by an invisible power above.
Four are now on the next ledge, and, by like course of proceeding arelifted one after another to that still higher, the sloping benchesbetween helping them in their ascent. All is done noiselessly,cautiously; for the savages are now seen below in dark clump, stationarynear the foot of the precipice.
They have reached the last bench, and so far unmolested, begin to thinkthemselves out of danger,
But alas, no! The silence long prevailing is suddenly broken by a rockdisplaced and rolling down; while at the same moment the treacherousmoon, showing over the horizon's edge, reveals them to the eyes of theIndians.
Then there is a chorus of wild yells, followed by shots--a veryfusillade; bullets strike the rocks and break fragments off, while othershots fired in return by those above into the black mass below instantlydisperse it.
In the midst of all, the last man is drawn up to the summit, but whenlanded there, they who draw him up see that the rope's noose is nolonger round a living body, but a corpse, bleeding, riddled withbullets.