CHAPTER EIGHT.
TENDER LEAVE-TAKINGS.
The excitement in the camp, already at full height, now changes to aquick, confused hurrying to and fro, accompanied by cries of many kinds.Here and there is heard the terrified scream of a woman, who, babe inarms, fancies the spear of a savage pointed at her breast, to impaleherself and offspring.
There is a rush for the gorge, up which a stream of human forms is soonseen swarming as ants up their hill. And, with a gallantry whichdistinguishes the miner as the mariner, the women and children arepermitted foremost place in the upward retreat, assisted by husbands.
Without serious accident all succeed in reaching the summit, where thewomen are left, the men who went with them hurrying back below. It ishard to part with valuable property and cherished household gods--stillharder to see these appropriated by a hated enemy--and an effort is tobe made for saving what can be saved. At first they only thought oftheir lives; but half a dozen men, who had sprung to their horses at theearliest moment of alarm, and galloped out beyond the mountain's flankto get better view, signal back that the Indians are not yet in sight.So there is still a chance to take up a portion of the camp equipage,with such goods as are likely to be most needed in the event of theirhaving to sustain a siege.
"The ammunition and provender first!" shouts Vicente, back again atcamp, with full authority of direction. "Take up everything that's foodfor man and loading for gun. After that whatever we'll have time for."
Knowing their women now safe, the men work with spirit; and soon adifferent sort of stream is seen ascending the gorge: a string ofburden-bearers, continuous from plain to summit; hastily returning downagain, relieved of their loads, to take up others. Never were bees sobusy. Some remain below, getting the goods out of the wagons, andmaking packages of them, convenient for the difficult transport. Thebales and boxes--lading of the pack-mules--are broken open, and theirmore valuable effects picked out and carried off; so that in a shortspace of time not much remains save the mining tools and machinery, withthe heavier articles of house furniture.
Could the Rattlesnake have known of this quick precautionary sacking ofthe camp by its owners, he and his would have approached it in greaterhaste. But they are seen coming on now. The mounted videttes have atlength signalled them in sight, they themselves galloping in at the sametime, and dropping down from their horses.
There is a last gathering up of bundles, which includes the two smallertents--the marquee left standing. Then the final _debandade_; allturning face towards the gorge, and toiling up it.
No, not all as yet; more than one lingers below. For the horses mustneeds be left behind; impossible to take them up a steep where onlygoat, sheep, or clawed creature might go. And more than one has amaster who parts with it reluctantly. Regretfully, too, at thought ofits changing owner, and to such owner as will soon enter uponpossession. Even some of the teamsters and muleteers have an affectionfor their mules, the head _arriero_ regarding the whole _atajo_ as hischildren, and the "bell-mare" almost as a mother. Many a long mile andleague has he listened to her guiding bell; its cheerful tinkleproclaiming the route clear along narrow dizzy ledge, or through deepdefile. And now he will hear its music no more.
But the ties must be severed, the parting take place. Which it does,amidst phrases and ejaculations of leave-taking, tender as though theleft ones were human beings instead of dumb brutes. "_Caballo--caballito querido_!" "_Mula-mulita mia_!" "_Pobre-pobrecita_! _Dios teguarda_!" And mingled with these are exclamations of a less gentlekind--anathemas hurled at the redskins coming on to take possession oftheir pets.
At this last Pedro Vicente is among the loudest. As yet he has had onlyhalf-payment for his late discovered mine, the remaining moietydependent on the working it. And now the crash--all the miningapparatus to be destroyed--perhaps the purchasing firm made bankrupt, ifeven life be left them. Thinking of all this, and what he has alreadysuffered at the hands of "_Los Indios_" no wonder at his cursing them.He, however, is not one of those taking affectionate and sentimentalfarewell of their animals. His horse is a late purchase, and though offine appearance, has proved aught but a bargain. For there are "copers"in Arispe as elsewhere, and the _gambusino_ has been their victim.Hence he parts with the disappointing steed neither regretfully norreluctantly. But not with the saddle and bridle; these, of elaborateadornment having cost him far more than the horse. So shouldering them,he too re-ascends, last of all save one.
That one is Henry Tresillian; and very different is the parting betweenhim and the animal of his belonging. The English youth almost shedstears as he stands by his horse's head, patting his neck and strokinghis muzzle, the last time he may ever lay hand on either. Nay, surely,too surely, the last. And the noble creature seems to know it too,responding to the caress by a low mournful whimpering.
"Ah! my beautiful Crusader! to think I must leave you behind! And to beridden by a redskin--a cruel savage who will take no care of you. Oh!it is hard--hard!"
Crusader appears to comprehend what is said, for his answer is somethinglike a moan. It may be that he interprets the melancholy expression onhis master's face--that master who has been so kind to him.
"A last farewell, brave fellow! Be it a kiss," says the youth, bringinghis lips in contact with those of the horse. Then pulling off theheadstall, with its attached trail-rope, and letting them drop to theground, he again speaks the sad word "farewell," and, turning back onhis beloved steed, walks hurriedly and determinedly away, as thoughfearing resolution might fail him.
Soon he commences climbing up the gorge; all the others who have gonebefore now nearly out of it. But ere he has ascended ten steps, hehears that behind which causes him to stop and look back. Not in alarm:he knows it to be the neigh of his own horse, accompanied by the strokeof his hoofs in quick repetition--Crusader coming on in a gallop for thegorge. In another instant he is by its bottom, on hind legs, rearing upagainst the rocky steep, as if determined to scale it.
In vain: after an effort he drops back on all fours. But to rear up andtry again and again, all the while giving utterance to wild, agonisedneighs--very screams.
To Henry Tresillian the sight is saddening, the sound torture, stirringhis heart to its deepest depths. To escape the seeing--though he cannotso soon the hearing--he once more turns his back upon the horse, andhastens on upward. But when halfway to the head, he cannot resisttaking another downward look. Which shows him Crusader yet by thebottom of the gorge, but now standing still on all fours, as if resignedto the inevitable. Not silent, however; instead, at short intervals,giving utterance to that neigh of melancholy cadence, alike proclaimingdiscomfiture and despair.