The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora. Reid Mayne
aim not to scan it so far. For at a distance of little more than ten they observe that which at once fixes their glance: a dun yellowish disc – 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 be nothing 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 on his brow sensibly darkening, as with a quick glance over his shoulder he sees real smoke in that direction. “What fools we’ve been to kindle fires! Rank madness. Better to have eaten breakfast raw. I myself most to blame of any; I should have known the danger. By this they’ll have 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, he is for a while silent; his heart beating audibly, however, as with gaze fixed on the far-off cloud, he endeavours to interpret it. But the dark cloud soon becomes less dense, partially dispersed, and under it appears something more solid; a clump of sombre hue, but with here and there sparkling points. No separate forms can as yet be made out; only a mass; but for all that, the gambusino knows it to be composed of horses and men, the corruscations being the glint of arms and accoutrements, as the sun penetrates through to them.
“What a pity,” he exclaims, resuming speech, “I didn’t think of asking Don 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 for us to-day; but fighting ere the sun goes down – perhaps ere it reach meridian. Mira! the thing’s splitting into two. You see, señorito?”
The señorito does see that the dust-cloud has parted in twain, as also the dark mass underneath. And now they can distinguish separate forms; horses with men on their backs, and a more conspicuous glittering of arms, because of their being in motion.
“Ah, yes!” adds the Mexican, with increased gravity of tone, “Indios bravos they are, hundreds of them. If Apaches, as sure they must, Heaven help us all! I know what they mean by that movement. They’ve sighted the camp smoke, and intend coming on along both sides of the Cerro. That’s why they’ve broken into two bands. Back to camp, as fast as 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 when coming 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, without even staying to look at these, much less think of taking them along.
The occupants of the miners’ camp, men, women, and children, are up and active now. Some are at work about the wagons, pouring water over their wheels 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 of pasturage. A small party is seen around the carcase of a bullock, in the act of skinning it to get beefsteaks for breakfast.
Several fires have been kindled, for the people are many, and have separate messes, according to rank and vocation. Around these are the women and grown girls, some bending over red earthenware pots that contain chocolate and coffee, others on their knees with the metate stone in front, and metlapilla in hand, crushing the boiled maize into paste for the indispensable tortillas. The children play by the lake’s edge, wading ankle-deep into the water, plashing about like little ducks; some of the bigger boys, who have improvised a rude tackle, endeavouring to catch fish. In this remote tarn there are such, as it has an affluent stream connecting it with the Rio Horcasitas – now nearly dry, but at times having a volume of water sufficient for the finny tribes to ascend to the lake, into which several species have found their way.
Within the space enclosed by the wagons – the corral– three tents have been erected, and stand in a row. The middle one is a large square marquee, the two flanking it of the ordinary bell shape. The marquee is occupied by the senior partner and his señora; the one on the right by their daughter and an Indian moza– her waiting-maid; the third affords shelter and sleeping quarters for the two Tresillians.
All three are for a time empty, their occupants having stepped out of them. As known, Henry Tresillian has gone up to the summit of the Cerro, and his father is moving about the camp in the company of the mayor-domo, with an eye to superintendence of everything; while Don Estevan, his wife, and daughter, have strolled out along the lake’s edge to enjoy the refreshing breeze wafted over its water. The three promenaders have but made one turn along the sandy shore, and back again, when they hear a cry which not only alarms them, but all within and around the camp —
“Los Indios!”
It has been sent from above – from the head of the ravine; and everybody looks up – all eyes raised simultaneously. To see two men standing on a projecting point of rock, their figures sharply outlined against the blue background of sky; at the same time to recognise them as the gambusino and Henry Tresillian. Only for an instant are these at a stand; only to shout down those terrible words of warning; then both bound into the gorge, and come on at a rush, with risk of breaking their necks.
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