Chapter Twenty Seven.
In Painful Suspense.
Than the rest of that night no more anxious time has been spent by the beleaguered miners. If their new messenger fail in his errand, then they can never dispatch another. No chance for a second one to descend the cliff, or get down the gorge, for both will be hereafter guarded more carefully than ever.
All stay awake till morning, listening to every sound below, and doing what they can to interpret it. They had heard the cries near the Indian camp as Henry Tresillian attempted to pass it, those by the ravine’s head hearing them plainer. Then other cries, as in response, proceeding from the western side of the lake.
After that a moment of silence, succeeded by a plunging noise, as of a horse making his way through deep water. And soon after shouts again, for a while continuous, terminating in hoof-strokes, at each instant less distinct, at length dying away in the distance.
But just then they upon the cliff had to listen to other sounds more concerning themselves. For it was at this time their presence became known to the party remaining behind, resulting in that hurried ascent from ledge to ledge, with the loss of one of their number.
Long after, they see that which renews their excitement, their thoughts in a conflict between hope and fear. From the vidette post, around which they have all gathered, they behold a moving mass, in the early dawn distinguishable as men on horseback. It is the party who went in pursuit of their messenger returning. But whether they have him with them or no cannot be told; for they come back in a thick clump, and he may be in its midst invisible. Nor is it opened out till they pass behind the abutment of rock, disappearing from the view of those on the mesa.
By the besieged ones the day is passed with anxiety unrelieved. For, although several had hastily proceeded to a point from which a sight of the Indian camp could be obtained, it was yet too dark to see whether the pursuers had brought back a prisoner. And when daylight came, he might be there without their being able to see him—inside the marquee, or under one of the wagons.
Gradually, however, their hopes gain the ascendant; for nothing of Crusader can be seen, and the noble steed, if there, could not well be hidden away. Besides, there is no more setting up of that ensanguined stake, no more firing at a human target, as would likely have taken place had the pale-faced courier been their captive. Instead, a certain restlessness, with signs of apprehension, is observed among themselves throughout all the day, almost proclaiming his escape.
In Don Estevan’s tent it is discussed, and this conclusion come to, giving joy to all. But to none as to his own daughter. All day a prey to keen, heart-sickening anxiety, how glad is she at hearing the gambusino say:
“I’m sure the señorito has got safe away, and is now on the road to Arispe. Were it not so, we’d have seen him ere this—tied to that accursed stake and riddled with bullets, as the others. The brutes meant doing the same with me; had almost begun it, when, thanks to the Virgin, there came a slip between cup and lip. And I think we may thank her now for giving a like chance to the brave lad. Santos Dios! he deserves it.”
Cheering words to Gertrude, who can scarce resist rushing up to the speaker and giving him a kiss for them. Chaste kiss it would be, for the gambusino is neither young nor handsome. She contents herself by saying:
“Oh, sir! if he get safe to Arispe, you shall be paid for your saddle ten times over. I’m sure father will not grudge that.”
“Saddle, niña lindissima!” exclaims Vicente, with a quizzical smile; “that’s nought to me. I’d be glad to sacrifice a hundred such—ay, a thousand, if I could afford it, for him you seem so interested in. His life’s too precious to be weighed in the scale against all the horsegear in the world.”
All signify approval of these generous sentiments, so pleasing to the youth’s father, who tacitly listens. And the brief dialogue over, they turn to discussing the chances of relief reaching them, now for the first time seeming favourable.
“If,” says Don Estevan, hopeful as any, “he meet no accident before arriving at Arispe, then we may count on receiving succour. There’s but one thing we have to fear—time! Nor need we fear that, if Colonel Requeñes be there with his regiment. By ill fortune he may not.”
“What reason have you for thinking he may not?” asks Robert Tresillian.
“I recall his telling me, just before we started, that there was a likelihood of his being ordered to Guaymas, to assist in suppressing a reported rising of the Yaquis Indians. If he has gone thither we’ll be no better off than before.”
“But the people of Arispe—surely they will not be indifferent to our situation?”
It is the Englishman who interrogates.
“Ah, true,” returns the Mexican, correcting himself, as a reassured expression comes over his countenance. “They will not. I did not think of that. I see it now.”
“’Tis not for us and ours alone we may expect them to bestir themselves; but for their own relatives and friends. Think, amigo mio! There isn’t one of our following but has left some one behind who should rush to the rescue soon as hearing how things stand.”
“You’re right, Don Roberto. Whether the soldiers be there or not. Arispe and its surroundings can surely furnish force enough to effect our deliverance. We must have patience—hope and pray for it.”
“Dear husband,” here interposes the señora, “you seem to forget my brother, Juliano, and his three hundred peones. At least half of them are brave fellows, a match for any savages as these who surround us. If Henrique succeed in reaching Arispe, he will go on to my brother’s hacienda, soldiers or no soldiers.”
This speech from an unexpected quarter further heightens their hopes, already rapidly rising. They almost feel as if the siege was being raised, and themselves about to continue their long-delayed journey.
A like sentiment pervades the people all through the camp. In every shed and booth is a group conversing on the same topic, and much in a similar way; all with trusting reliance on the friends left behind, confident they will not fail them.
At this self-same hour the feeling in the Coyotero camp is quite the contrary: instead of confidence, there is doubt, even apprehension. The white men’s messenger—for they are sure he must have been this—has got through their lines, clear away, and well do they comprehend the consequences.
They know the miners come from Arispe—marks on the wagons and other chattels tell them that—and the paleface courier will be now hastening thither. On such a swift steed he will reach it in quick time; and, with the tale which he has to tell, alike quick will be the response: a rescuing host in rush for Nauchampa-tepetl. It may even arrive before the return of their raiders from the Horcasitas.
Thus apprehensive, on the day and night following the escape of Henry Tresillian, and for many days and nights after, there is as much, if not more, anxiety in the camp of the besiegers as in that of the besieged.
The latter fear but famine; the former, fire and sword.