Chapter Twenty Nine.
To the Rescue.
In an instant after Henry Tresillian is inside the room, warmly received by both the Colonel and ganadero; less so by the young officer, though the two had been formerly bosom friends. The coolness of Cecilio Romero can be easily understood; but in the scene which succeeds, with hasty questioning, and answers alike hurried, no one takes note of it.
“You bring news—bad news, I fear?” says the Colonel.
“Bad, yes. I’m sorry having to say so,” returns the messenger. “This is for you, señor—from Don Estevan Villanueva. ’Twill tell you all.”
He pulls a folded paper from under his jacket, and hands it to the Colonel.
Breaking it open, the latter reads aloud; Romero standing by and listening, for its contents concern them all.
Thus ran it:
“Hermano mio, (brother),
“If Heaven permit this to reach your hands, ’twill tell you how we are situated—in extreme peril, I grieve to say, surrounded by Apache Indians, the most hostile and cruel of all—the Coyoteros. Where and how I need not specify. The brave boy who bears this, if successful in putting it into your hands, will give you all details. When you’ve got them, I know how you will act, and that no appeal from me is necessary. On you alone depends our safety—our lives. Without your help we are lost.
“Estevan Villanueva.”
“They shall not be lost,” cries the Colonel, greatly agitated—“not one of them, if the Zacatecas Lancers can save them. I go to their aid; will start at once. Away, Cecilio! down to the cuartel! Bring Major Garcia back with you immediately. Now, señorito,” he adds, turning to Henry Tresillian, “the details. Tell us all. But, first, where are our friends in such peril? In what place are they surrounded?”
“In a place strange enough, Señor Colonel,” answers the young Englishman. “On the top of a mountain.”
“On the top of a mountain!” echoes the Colonel. “A strange situation, indeed. What sort of mountain?”
“One standing alone on the llanos, out of sight of any other, ’Tis known as the Cerro Perdido.”
“Ah! I’ve heard of it.”
“I too,” says the ganadero.
“Up somewhere near the sources of the Horcasitas. A singular eminence—a mesa, I believe. But how came they to go there? It must be some way off the route to their intended destination.”
“We were forced thither, señor, through want of water. The guide advised it, and his advice would have been for the best, but for the ill luck of the savages chancing to come along that way.”
“Muchacho, I won’t confuse you with further questioning, but leave you to tell your tale. We listen. First have a copita of Catalan brandy to refresh you. You seem in need of it.”
“There’s one needs refreshing as much as myself, Señor Colonel; ay, more, and more deserves it.”
“What one! Who?”
“My horse out there. But for him I would not be here.”
“Ah! that’s your grand steed,” says the Colonel, looking out; “I remember him—Crusader. He does seem to need it, and shall have it. Sargento!” This in loud call to an orderly sergeant in waiting outside, who, instantly showing his face at the door, receives command to see the black horse attended to.
“Now, muchacho mio! proceed.”
Henry Tresillian, still speaking hurriedly for reasons comprehensible, runs over all that has occurred to the caravan, since its departure from the worked-out mine near Arispe, till its arrival at the Lost Mountain. Then the unexpected approach of the Indians, resulting in the retreat to the summit of the Cerro, with the other incidents and events succeeding—to that, the latest, of himself being lowered down the cliff, and his after-escape through the fleetness of his matchless steed.
“How many of the Indians are there?” asks the Colonel. “Can you tell that, señorito?”
“Between four and five hundred, we supposed; but they were not all there when I left. Some days before half their number went off on a marauding expedition southward; so our guide believed, as they were dressed and painted as when on the war-trail.”
“These had not returned when you came away?”
“No, Señor Colonel; no sign of them.”
“I see it all now, and pity the poor people who live on the lower Horcasitas. That’s where they were bent for, no doubt. The more reason for our making haste to reach the Cerro Perdido. We may catch these raiders on return. Sargento!” This again in call to the orderly, who responds instantly by presenting himself in the doorway.
“Summon the bugler! Give him orders to sound the ‘assembly’ at once. We must start without a moment’s delay. How fortunate those Yaquis kept quiet, else I would be now operating around Guaymas.”
“We must, Requeñes. But will your regiment be enough? How many men can you muster?”
“Five hundred. But there’s the battery of mountain howitzers—fifty men more. Of course, I take that along.”
“And of course I go too,” says the ganadero; “and, to make sure of our having force sufficient, can take with me at least a hundred good men, the pick of my vaqueros. Fortunately they’re now all within easy summons, assembled at my house for the herradero” (cattle branding), “which was to come off to-morrow. That can be postponed. Hasta lúego, Colonel; I ride back home to bring them; so doubt not my having them here, and ready for the route soon as your soldiers.”
“Bueno! Whether needed or not, it will be well to have your valiant vaqueros with us. I’ll welcome them.”
Instantly after the plaza of Arispe displays an animated scene, people crowding into it from all parts, with air excited. For the report, brought by the young Englishman, has gone forth and all abroad, spreading like wildfire,—Villanueva and Tresillian, with all their people, surrounded by savages! “Los Indios!” is the cry carried from point to point, striking terror into the hearts of the Arispenos, as though the dreaded redskins, instead of being at an unknown distance off, were at the gates of their city.
Then succeeds loud cheering as the bugle-call proclaims the approach of the lanzeros, troop after troop filing into the plaza, and forming line in front of their colonel’s quarters, all in complete equipment, and ready for the route.
More cheering as Don Juliano Romero comes riding in at the head of his hundred retainers; vaqueros and rancheros, in the picturesque costume of the country, armed to the teeth, and mounted on their mustangs, fresh, fiery, and prancing.
Still another cheer, as the battery of mountain howitzers rolls in and takes its place in the line. Then a loud chorus of vivas! as the march commences, prolonged and carried on as the column moves through the street; the crowd following far beyond the suburbs, to take leave of it with prayers upon their lips for the successful issue of an expedition in which many of them are but too painfully interested.