Chapter Seventeen.
Crusader Chased Again.
The scene, all action and excitement, has nevertheless occupied but a brief space of time: scarce two minutes since the grizzly bears first showed themselves on the edge of the glade till both lie dead within it—victims of their own ferocity.
It might have been very different, and under like circumstances nearly always is. Many cases are recorded in which half a score of camp travellers have succumbed to the insane rage of a single grizzly. Fortunate, too, had been the miners in their shots—no doubt clue to the short range at which they were fired—for the thick, tough skin of this animal is almost ball-proof, and one has been known to bear off a dozen bullets in its body, and carry them about with it afterwards.
The very openness of their danger, with no prospect of escaping it, had lent to the miners the courage of despair, and so made them more fearless in their attack; otherwise they would have fired at the enemy without approaching so near, perhaps to fail. Enough damage has been done notwithstanding, and a cry of lamentation succeeds the shots, and general shouting, as the women gather around the body of that single victim to the fury of the bears. Frightfully mutilated it is, showing parallel tears over the breast—the tracks of claws, all running blood, and a huge gash by the throat where the first stroke had been given.
“Esta Pablito Rojas!” cries a voice, identifying the lad, others adding in sympathetic chorus, “Pobre! pobre-ceti!”
There is one who takes no part in these demonstrations—Henry Tresillian. He is in fact no longer in the camp, for soon as the second grizzly had been disposed of, he started back for the vidette post, and so abruptly as to make all wonder who were observing him. Among the rest Gertrude herself, who thought it strange he should not stay to speak some words of congratulation. He but muttered one or two, with the name of his horse, well known to her, and was off.
Now, from his former point of view, he again beholds Crusader standing just as left, and still to all appearance unmolested. It is more than he expected, but there may be reasons: possibly the shouts and fusillade above have for a time drawn the attention of the Indians in that direction. This will not be for long, and Crusader’s master but counts the moments till he see him assailed and chased.
Nor are they many. Just after his return to the ravine’s head he observes nigh threescore dusky horsemen move out beyond the flanking embattlement of rock; not hastily, nor in confusion, but in deliberate and long deployed line, which stretches afar over the llano.
Crusader sees them too, and seems to regard them with indifference; he has taken to browsing on a piece of rich pasture lying along the stream’s edge, this alone for the time occupying him. That he is the objective point of their movement is evident, though none of them are heading straight towards him, their design being evidently to get around him.
After all, is he going to let himself be surrounded, and approached in this easy manner? Such is the interrogatory which passes among those watching from above, for the videttes have returned to their post, with others accompanying them.
One answers it, saying, “It’s not at all likely. He let himself be taken in a trap! More like the redskins will find themselves in one before long. See! they begin to find it now!”
This, from Pedro Vicente in his old spirit, as he points to the line of savages far extended.
The files have by this faced westward, but are advancing towards the stream; now, on nearing it, they are seen to stop abruptly as if in surprise. Then, after an instant, all wheel round and ride back eastward, till getting on their old line, they return at a gallop towards their camp. They have discovered the stream to be impassable.
“That horse is the demonio himself,” says Pedro Vicente—“neither more nor less. He must have known they could not cross the swollen streamlet, or he’d never have stopped by it as he has done. But they’ve not given him up yet. No! see: they’re going round by the head of the lake.”
Just this they intend, as is seen by their advancing towards the point where the lake commences by the mouth of the ravine. They have no difficulty in crossing its in-going stream, a few minutes after the rain ceased having reduced this to its normal condition of a tiny rivulet.
And like some dark, disagreeable vision Henry Tresillian sees pass before his eyes the savage cohort, file after file, one disappearing after another, till at length no animated form is observable on the plain below, save that their eyes have been hitherto regarding with interest.
There is a long interval without event; nearly an hour elapses ere Crusader shows any sign, his head almost continuously to the grass, raised only occasionally, as he changes place upon it. All this time the Indians are out of sight, with no sound coming from the direction they had taken.
But at length there is a sound, a startled neigh from the black horse, who, tossing his crest in air, rears upward with a curving sweep, and then darts straight away, as if in flight from an advancing enemy—the enemy seen instantly afterwards as several mounted men disclose themselves from the western framework of rock, all in a tail-on-end gallop.
Crusader has taken along the edge of the stream, and follows it in parallel direction downwards, just as he fled before from the same pursuers. There would seem no chance of their overtaking him now; for he appears to gain distance at every bound, without even straining himself. But lo! what is that?
“Santos Dios! They’ve headed him. Milraya! what a pity!”
It is the gambusino who thus exclaims, seeing other horsemen on the plain farther points on, all facing towards the stream, evidently to intercept the chased steed.
Crusader sees them too, for he is now close up to them; but forsaking the course he has hitherto followed, he makes an abrupt turn and breaks off westward, continuing this direction in full gallop, till the rocks hide him from view.
Alike the pursuers thrown round, pass out of sight one after another, and again that part of the llano resumes its wonted aspect of stern, savage tranquillity.
For most of those composing the party of spectators the chase had no particular interest, and only a few of them were gathered around the point where it could be viewed. Indeed, but a few heard of Crusader being seen, the greater and more serious event obscuring that of lesser note. And now these few, one after the other, again go back to ojo de agua, to take part in the duties of the day.
But the English youth still stays by the vidette post, with eye constantly directed on the plain below, and ears listening intently, to catch any sound that may come from the western side; apprehensively, too, for he fears to hear shots.
The savages failing to catch the black horse with their laryettes, may spitefully endeavour to bring him down with their guns. This, indeed, is the real clanger his young master has been dreading, and which for the time engrosses all his thoughts.
Luckily not for long. Within less than an hour the dusky horsemen, in twos and threes, come straggling back across the open ground between the lake’s head and their camp, so continuing till the last of them have returned, all with discomfited air, but none with Crusader as their captive. And as no report of gun has been heard, it is more than probable he has once more eluded them.