CHAPTER SEVEN.
LOS INDIOS!
Parting from the despised carcase of the ram the hunters press onward,the younger with mental resolve to return to it, come back what way theywill. Its grand spiral horns have caught his fancy: such a pair wouldgrace any hall in Christendom; and, though he cannot call the trophy hisown, since it fell not to his gun, he intends appropriating it.
Only for a brief moment does the young Englishman reflect about them; inthe next they are out of his mind. For, glancing at the Mexican's face,he again sees that look of anxious uneasiness noted before. It hadreturned soon as the exciting incident of the sheep-shooting was over.And knowing the cause, he shares it; no more thinking about the chase orits trophies.
They say but little now, having sufficient work to occupy them withoutwasting time in words. For beyond the opening where the _carneros_ wereencountered, they find no path--not so much as a trace made by animals--and have to make one for themselves. As the trees stand close, with_lianas_ interlacing, the Mexican is often compelled to use his_machete_ for hewing out a passage-way; which he does with anaccompaniment of _carrambas_! thick as the underwood he chops at.
Thus impeded, they are nearly an hour in getting through the_chapparal_, though the distance passed is less than the half of a mile.But at length they accomplish it, arriving on the _mesas_ outer edge,close to that of the cliff. There the tall timber ends in a skirting oflow bushes, and their view is no longer obstructed. North, east, andwest the _llano_ is under their eyes to the horizon's verge, twentymiles at least being within the scope of their vision.
They aim not to scan it so far. For at a distance of little more thanten they observe that which at once fixes their glance: a dun yellowishdisc--a cloud--with its base resting upon the plain.
"Smoke, no--but dust!" exclaims the _gambusino_, soon as sighting it;"and kicked up by the heels of horses--hundreds of them. There can benothing else out there to cause that. Horses with men on their backs.If a _caballada_ of wild mustangs, the dust would show more scattered._Indios, por cierto! Carra-i_!" he says in continuation, the shade onhis brow sensibly darkening, as with a quick glance over his shoulder hesees real smoke in that direction. "What fools we've been to kindlefires! Rank madness. Better to have eaten breakfast raw. I myselfmost to blame of any; I should have known the danger. By this they'llhave spied our camp smoke--that of our shots, too. Ah, _muchacho_!we've been foolish in every way."
Almost breathless from this burst of regret and self-recrimination, heis for a while silent; his heart beating audibly, however, as with gazefixed on the far-off cloud, he endeavours to interpret it. But the darkcloud soon becomes less dense, partially dispersed, and under it appearssomething more solid; a clump of sombre hue, but with here and theresparkling points. No separate forms can as yet be made out; only amass; but for all that, the _gambusino_ knows it to be composed ofhorses and men, the corruscations being the glint of arms andaccoutrements, as the sun penetrates through to them.
"What a pity," he exclaims, resuming speech, "I didn't think of askingDon Estevan for the loan of his telescope! If we only had it here now!But I can see enough without it; 'tis as I feared. No more hunting forus to-day; but fighting ere the sun goes down--perhaps ere it reachmeridian. _Mira_! the thing's splitting into two. You see, senorito?"
The senorito does see that the dust-cloud has parted in twain, as alsothe dark mass underneath. And now they can distinguish separate forms;horses with men on their backs, and a more conspicuous glittering ofarms, because of their being in motion.
"Ah, yes!" adds the Mexican, with increased gravity of tone, "_Indiosbravos_ they are, hundreds of them. If Apaches, as sure they must,Heaven help us all! I know what they mean by that movement. They'vesighted the camp smoke, and intend coming on along both sides of theCerro. That's why they've broken into two bands. Back to camp, as fastas our legs can carry us! We've not a minute--not a second--to lose._Vamos_!"
And back for camp they start, not to spend time on the way as whencoming from it, but in a run and rush along the path already opened--past the dead sheep, past the spring, and the strung-up turkeys, withouteven staying to look at these, much less think of taking them along.
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The occupants of the miners' camp, men, women, and children, are up andactive now. Some are at work about the wagons, pouring water over theirwheels to tighten the tyres, loose from the shrinking of the wood;others have set to mending harness and pack-saddles; while still others,out on the open plain, are changing the animals to fresh spots ofpasturage. A small party is seen around the carcase of a bullock, inthe act of skinning it to get beefsteaks for breakfast.
Several fires have been kindled, for the people are many, and haveseparate messes, according to rank and vocation. Around these are thewomen and grown girls, some bending over red earthenware pots thatcontain chocolate and coffee, others on their knees with the _metate_stone in front, and _metlapilla_ in hand, crushing the boiled maize intopaste for the indispensable _tortillas_. The children play by thelake's edge, wading ankle-deep into the water, plashing about likelittle ducks; some of the bigger boys, who have improvised a rudetackle, endeavouring to catch fish. In this remote tarn there are such,as it has an affluent stream connecting it with the Rio Horcasitas--nownearly dry, but at times having a volume of water sufficient for thefinny tribes to ascend to the lake, into which several species havefound their way.
Within the space enclosed by the wagons--the _corral_--three tents havebeen erected, and stand in a row. The middle one is a large squaremarquee, the two flanking it of the ordinary bell shape. The marquee isoccupied by the senior partner and his senora; the one on the right bytheir daughter and an Indian _moza_--her waiting-maid; the third affordsshelter and sleeping quarters for the two Tresillians.
All three are for a time empty, their occupants having stepped out ofthem. As known, Henry Tresillian has gone up to the summit of theCerro, and his father is moving about the camp in the company of the_mayor-domo_, with an eye to superintendence of everything; while DonEstevan, his wife, and daughter, have strolled out along the lake's edgeto enjoy the refreshing breeze wafted over its water. The threepromenaders have but made one turn along the sandy shore, and backagain, when they hear a cry which not only alarms them, but all withinand around the camp--
"_Los Indios_!"
It has been sent from above--from the head of the ravine; and everybodylooks up--all eyes raised simultaneously. To see two men standing on aprojecting point of rock, their figures sharply outlined against theblue background of sky; at the same time to recognise them as the_gambusino_ and Henry Tresillian. Only for an instant are these at astand; only to shout down those terrible words of warning; then bothbound into the gorge, and come on at a rush, with risk of breaking theirnecks.
At its bottom they are met by an excited, clamorous crowd; surroundedand assailed by a very tempest of interrogations. But to these theyvouchsafe no answer beyond that implied in their shout; instead, push onto where Don Estevan and the elder Tresillian, now together, standawaiting them. The senior partner is the first to speak, addressinghimself to Vicente:
"You've seen Indians, Don Pedro? Where?"
"Out upon the _llano_, your worship--to north-eastward."
"You're sure of it being Indians?"
"Quite sure, senor. We were able to make horses with men on them; themen unlike any with a white skin, but just as those with a red one.Your worship can take my word for their being Indians."
"I can, and do. But from what you say, it seems they're still a goodway off. How far, think you?"
"Ten miles or more, when we came away from the place where we saw them.They can't be much nearer yet, as we've not been over ten minutes on theway."
The quick time made by the hunters in return is attested by theirbreathing; both with nostrils agape and breasts heaving up and down asrunners at the close of a hard-co
ntested race.
"'Tis well they're at such a distance," rejoins Don Estevan. "And luckyyour having sighted them before they got nearer."
"Ah! senor, they'll soon be near; for I know they've sighted us--atleast the smoke of our camp, and are already making for it. Lighthorsemen as they don't need long to traverse ten miles--on a plain likethis."
"That's true," assents the _ci-devant_ soldier, with an air of troubledimpatience. "What do you advise our doing, Don Pedro?"
"Well, for one thing, your worship, we mustn't remain here. We mustclear out of this camp as soon as possible. In an hour--ay, less--itmay be too late."
"Your words want explaining, Don Pedro. I don't comprehend them. Clearout of the camp! But whither are we to go?"
"_Arriba_!" answers the guide, pointing to the gorge, "up yonder."
"But we can't take the animals there. And to carry up our goods therewouldn't be time."
"I know it, your worship. And glad we may be to get ourselves safe up."
"Then we're to abandon all? Is that what you advise?"
"It is. I'm sorry I can give no better advice. There's no alternativeif we wish to live."
"To lose everything," puts in the junior partner, "goods, animals,machinery! That would be a terrible calamity. Surely, Senor Vicente,we can defend the camp; our people are all well armed."
"Impossible, Don Roberto; impossible were they ever so well armed. Fromwhat I could make out of the Indian party it numbers hundreds to ourtens, sufficient of them to surround us on every side. And even if wecould keep them off during daylight, at night they'd crawl close enoughto set the camp on fire. Wagons, tilts, every stick and stitch of themare dry as tinder; the very pack-saddles would be ablaze with the firstspark that fell on them."
"But how know we that these Indians are hostile? After all, it may besome friendly band; perhaps Opatas?"
"No!" exclaims the _gambusino_ impatiently. "I saw enough to knowthey're not Opatas, nor _mansos_ of any kind; enough to be sure they're_bravos_, and almost sure, Apaches."
"Apaches!" echo several voices in the surrounding, in tones proclaimingthe dread with which this name inspires the heart of every Sonoreno.Every man present feels a creeping sensation in the skin of his head, asthough the scalping-knife were being brandished around it.
"They're coming from the direction where Apaches would come," pursuesVicente. "Besides, they have no baggage; not a woman or child to beseen with them. All men, mounted and armed."
"Indeed, if it be so," rejoins Don Estevan, with brow now darklyshadowed, "we can expect no friendship from them."
"No mercy either!" adds the gold-seeker. "Nor have we a right to expectit, after the treatment they've had at the hands of Captain Gil Perezand his men."
All know to what Vicente alludes: a massacre of Apache Indians by aparty of Mexican soldiers, after being lured and lulled into falsesecurity by professions of peace--cold-blooded and cruel, as anyrecorded in the annals of frontier warfare.
"I've said it. I'm good as sure they're Apaches," repeats the_gambusino_, more impressively. "And it would be madness, sheerinsanity, to await them here. We must up to the _mesa_."
"But will we be safe there?"
"As in a citadel. No fortress ever contrived, or made by hand of man,is strong as the Cerro Perdido. Twenty men could hold it against asmany hundreds--ay, thousands. _Carramba_! We may thank the Virgin forproviding us with such a secure retreat; so handy, and just in the nickof time."
"Then let us to it," assents Don Estevan, after a brief consultationwith his partner, who no longer opposes the step, though by it they maylose their all. "We'll follow your advice, Senor Vicente; and you haveour authority to order everything as it seems best to you."
"I've only one order to give, your worships; that's _arriba_! Up, alland everybody!"