Chapter Ten.
An Enfilading Line.
The “stone artillery” has been got together; a huge pile of it, forming at the same time protecting parapet and battery of guns; the men have desisted from their work, and having nothing more to do, at least for a time, stand listening for the signals. They know that such have been arranged, without having been told their exact bearing.
But they are soon to learn it; almost instantly after hearing a shot, and then quick succeeding it another, as the discharges from a double-barrelled gun.
“The Indians coming on, and near!” says Don Estevan, interpreting to those around. “We may look to see them soon yonder.”
He nods towards the abandoned camp, a portion of which is visible from the head of the gorge.
This causes a turning of all eyes in its direction, and on the llano beyond. But scarce have they commenced scanning it when two other shots, less loud but with a like interval between, reach their ears, proceeding from the same quarter.
“The pistols—signals three and four!” mechanically pronounces the ex-officer of dragoons, his sallow features showing further clouded. “There’s no more to listen for now,” he adds. “Don Pedro was right. Apaches they must be, and on a marauding expedition—likely for the towns of the Horcasitas, and, unluckily, we in their way. Ah, amigos! it’s an ill look-out for us; could not well be worse.”
But worse it is, as they are yet to learn. And soon do learn from the lips of the gambusino, who, returning in breathless haste, cries out ere he is up to them,
“Los Coyoteros! The band of El Cascabel!”
Words of terrible portent, needing no explanation, for they recall to the minds of all present that sanguinary incident already alluded to. The dastardly deed of Captain Perez and his ruffianly soldiery is likely to be retaliated on men, not only themselves guiltless, but every one of whom has condemned it! For how can they expect mercy from the friends and relatives of his murdered victims? How hope for any distinction or exception in their favour? They cannot, and do not, knowing that ever since that inhuman massacre the Apaches have treated every paleface as a foe, the Coyoteros killing all prisoners that fall into their hands, after torturing them.
“You think it’s the band of Cascabel?”
It is Don Estevan who questions in rejoinder to the gambusino’s brief but expressive report.
“Think! I’m sure of it, your worship. Through this good glass of yours I recognised that savage himself, knowing him too well. It enabled me to make out his totem, the pretty device on his breast, of which this on mine’s but a poor copy. Mira!”
While speaking, he unbuttons his shirt-front and draws the plaits apart, as a screen from some precious picture, exposing to the view of all what he had already shown to Henry Tresillian. As most of them remember having heard of the sepulchral symbol borne by the Coyotero chief, with that other more appropriate to his name, they now know the sort of enemy that is approaching, and what they have to expect. No more among them is there hope of either friendship or mercy. On one side, the stronger, it will be attack hostile and vengeful; on the other, and weaker—theirs, alas!—it must be resistance and defence even unto death.
Though fully convinced of this, the miners remain calm, with that confidence due to danger seeming still distant. They know they are safe for the time, unassailable, the gambusino having given them assurance of it. But they now see it for themselves, and any apprehensions they have are less for the present than the future. Sure are they that a siege is before them, how long they cannot guess, nor in which way it will terminate. And there may be chances of relief or escape they have not thought of. Hope is hard to kill, and the least hopeful of them has not yet yielded to despair. Time enough for that when starvation stares them in the face, for hunger—famine—is the foe they have most to fear.
But they think not of things so far ahead. They must first see the enemy of which their guide has given such awe-inspiring account; and, with glances sent abroad and over that portion of the plain visible to them, they await his appearance on it.
Nearly another hour elapses without any enemy seen. The horses and mules have got over their late excitement, and are again tranquilly depasturing, some having waded into the lake to cool their hoofs, still hot after their long jornada. But none wander away from the proximity of the camp; the only animals out on the plain being prong-horn antelopes, a herd of which, on their way to the water too, has been deterred approaching it by the presence of huge monsters unknown to them—the wagons. But these have not hindered the approach of the black-winged birds; instead, attracted them, and a large flock is now around the abandoned camp, some wheeling above, others at rest on the ground or perched upon the rock-boulders which bestrew it. A crowd, collected on the spot where the ox had been butchered for breakfast, contest possession of its offal.
All of a sudden, and simultaneously, a movement is perceptible among the animals, birds as quadrupeds, the wild as the tame. The prong-horns with a snort raise their heads aloft as if they saw or scented some new danger, then lope off at lightning speed. The vultures take wing, but only rise a little way into the air, to soar round in circles; while the horses, mules, and horned cattle, as if seized by a frenzy of madness, rush excitedly about, wildly neighing and bellowing, at each instant threatening to break away in stampede.
“They smell redskin,” knowingly observes the gambusino, who is among the rest watching their movements. “Yes; and we’ll soon see the ugly thing itself. Chingara! yonder it is.”
He has no need to point out either the thing or the place. The eyes of all are now on it; the head of a dusky cohort just appearing round the eastern projection of the Cerro, becoming elongated as file after file unfolds itself. They are still afar off—at least a league—nor is their line of march directed towards the mountain, but westward, as though they intended turning it.
No such manoeuvre is meant, however, as the miners, forewarned by their guide, are already aware. His words are made good by their seeing soon after another dark line developing itself on the llano, at a like distance off, but coming from the opposite direction.
“The party that went west about,” says the gambusino, half in soliloquy; “cunning in them to make a complete surround of us. I suppose they thought we were but horsemen, and might get away from them. If they’d seen our wagons, it would have saved them some trouble. Well, they see everything now.”
No one makes rejoinder, all intently gazing at the two marching bands, now with eyes on one, then quickly transferred to the other. The portion of the plain visible is sextant-shaped—the view on either side cut off by the flanking ridges of the ravine—and from each side the string of savage horsemen is continuously lengthening out. Not rapidly, but in slow leisurely crawl, as if confident they had already secured the enfiladement of the camp. With a thicker concentration near the head of each, and a metallic sparkle all along their line—the sheen of their armour under the rays of the meridian sun—they appear as two huge serpents of antediluvian age, deliberately drawing towards one another either for friendship or combat.
In due time their front files come together, near the central part of the sextant; though the rear ones are still invisible;—how many of these no one knows, save approximately. Enough, however, are already in sight to make a formidable array, and put all thought of conflict with them out of the question. The miners but congratulate themselves on their fortune in finding that secure place of retreat, which will enable them to shun it. Grateful are they to their guide for making it known—and they have reason. If within their late camp instead of where they now are, the hours of their life would be numbered—perhaps to count only minutes. At the best they could but save bare life for a time, but nothing to comfort or sustain it.
All this they have come to comprehend thoroughly as they continue to watch the movements of the Coyoteros, and see the cordon these have drawn around them. But for some minutes there is no movement at all, the bands after uniting having come to a halt, the files making quarter-wheel, so as to face the Cerro—all done as by trained cavalry on a parade-ground! And for a while they stay halted, the change of front giving their alignment a thinner look. But at the central point is a thicker clump, without military formation, on which Don Estevan directs his telescope. To see half a dozen of the mounted savages face to face with one another, earnestly, excitedly gesticulating. After a look through it, he tenders the glass to the gambusino, who may better understand what they are about.
“El Cascabel and his sub-chiefs in consultation,” pronounces the latter, soon as sighting them. “It’s plain they’re puzzled by seeing wagons where never were such before. Like as not they think we’re soldados, and that makes them cautious. But they’ll soon know different. Por Dios! they know it now. They’re coming on!”