Chapter Nineteen.
Who to be the Forlorn Hope?
Day succeeds day with no brightening of hopes to those beleaguered on the Lost Mountain. Instead, in each something arises to make their prospects darker, if that were possible.
About ten days after the commencement of the siege the besiegers have their force increased, a fresh party coming down from the north, evidently in obedience to a summons, which they who drove off the captured caballada have carried back. But for what purpose this accession of strength, when it is not needed? They on the ground are already enough, and to spare.
The miners cannot guess what they have come about, unless it be the remaining braves of the tribe, to take part in some ceremony over their fallen chief, or be present when the time arrives for the wreaking of vengeance.
It has nothing to do with that, however, solely a conception of their new leader, El Zopilote, who has his reasons for carrying out the raid down the Horcasitas. So on the second day after, the besieging party, instead of being one hundred men the more, is all that the less; at least two hundred seen to issue forth from the camp, and proceed southward in full war-paint and panoply, with all their frightful insignia. As successive files they move off along the stream’s edge, it might seem as some gigantic serpent commencing its crawl towards prey. And many on the mountain, with a suspicion of where they are going, have a pitying heart for those who live on the banks of the lower Horcasitas.
Enough, however, to think of themselves, and each hour more than enough; for as the days pass circumstances present a still sterner front. The supply of provisions, at first seeming inexhaustible, proves to have a limit. There are over seventy mouths to feed, which calls for a large daily quantity. So one by one the wild quadrupeds give out, the birds long before these, frightened by the constant chase and fusillade, forsaking the place altogether. The store of tasajo and other preserved meats begins to be drawn upon. When these come to an end, so too must all the suspense, all the agonies of that quaint, quasi imprisonment, to terminate in real captivity, or indeed death itself.
In the tent of Don Estevan some seven or eight of the mining people are assembled; the two dueños are of course present, with the mayor-domo, the chief engineer, and other heads of departments. No need to say the gambusino is among them. They are there to take counsel on the events of the day, and the means of the morrow. Every night it has been their custom to do so, and on this one—for it is at night—there is nothing very different to speak of from any other.
Still, Don Estevan has conceived a thought which had not hitherto occurred to him, and now lays it before the assembled conclave.
“Caballeros! I can think of only one way—poor, doubtful chance it is—by which we may get rescued. Some one must contrive to pass their sentries.”
“Impossible!” is the thought of all hearing him, one or two expressing it in speech. For of all the things observed as vigorously kept up, never relaxed for an hour—even a moment—has been that sentinel line thrown across the plain from flank to flank of the ravine. All day long it has appeared there, and all through the night evidently redoubled.
“Pity if it be,” rejoins Don Estevan, yielding to what appears the general sentiment. “And to think that one word at Arispe would make all well. My own brother-in-law, Colonel Requeñes, in command there with a regiment of lancers—they of Zacatecas. In less than half an hour they could be in the saddle, and hastening to our relief. Ay Dios! if we can’t communicate with them we are lost—surely lost!”
At this, Robert Tresillian says, interrogatively:
“I wonder how many of our people could find the way back to Arispe?”
Without altogether comprehending what he means, several numbers are mentioned in a guessing way, according to the estimate of each. Pedro Vicente thinks at least thirty could,—certainly all the arrieros and vaqueros.
“What is your idea, Don Roberto?” at length asks the senior partner.
“That all of those who know the way back be mustered, and two taken from them by lot, who will run the risk of passing the Indian sentries. If they succeed, then all may be saved; if on the contrary, it will be but to lose their lives a little sooner. I propose that all submit to the lottery—all who are unmarried.”
“I agree with the Señor Tresillian,” here puts in the gambusino. “Some of us must contrive to get past them at whatever risk. For my part, I’m willing to be one, with any other.”
The generous proposal is received with applause, but not accepted,—it would not be fair; and in fine it is agreed upon, that fate shall determine who shall be the pair to run the proposed risk—the ceremony for deciding it to take place on the morrow.
In the morning it comes off soon as breakfast is eaten. All known to be eligible are summoned together on a spot of ground apart, and told the purport of their being so assembled. No one objects, or tries to evade the dangerous conscription; instead, there are even some who, like Vicente, would volunteer for the duty.
For is not one of the dueños—the brave Englishman and his son, there present—both offering themselves as candidates like any of the common men?
No volunteering, then, is allowed; fortune alone permitted to decide on whom shall be the forlorn hope.
The quaint lottery, though awe-inspiring, occupies but a brief space of time. Against the number of men who are to take part in it, a like number of piñon-nuts have been counted out, and dropped into a deep-crowned sombrero. Two of the nuts have been already stained with gunpowder, the others left in their natural colour; but no one by the feel could tell which was which. The black ones are to be the prizes.
The men stand in a ring round Don Estevan, with another who is among the exempt in the centre. These hold the hat, into which one after another, stepping from the circle, led forward blindfolded, inserts his hand, and draws out a nut. If white, he goes clear; but long before the white ones are exhausted the two blacks are taken up, which brings the ceremony to an abrupt end, that deciding all.
They who have drawn the prizes are a muleteer and a cattle drover, both brave fellows. They had need be, for this very night they will have to run the gauntlet of life and death, perhaps ere the morrow’s sun to be no more.