Chapter Twenty Three.
A Ride in Mid-Air.
It turns out just such a night as was wished for—moonless, still not obscurely dark. Too much darkness would defeat the end in view. They need light for the lowering down, a thing that will take some time with careful management.
But the miners are the very men for such purpose. Not one of them who has not dangled at a rope’s end in a shaft hundreds of feet sheer down into the earth. To them it is habitude—child’s play—as to him who spends his life scaling sea-coast cliffs for the eggs and young of birds.
It is yet early when the party entrusted with the undertaking assemble on the edge of the precipice, at the point where the daring adventurer is to make descent. Some carry coils of rope, others long poles notched at the end for fending the line off the rocks, while the gambusino is seen bearing a burden which differs from all the rest. A saddle and bridle it is; his own, cherished for their costliness, but now placed at the service of his young friend, to do what he will with them.
“I could ride Crusader without them,” says the English youth: “guide him with my voice and knees; but these will make it surer, and I thank you, Señor Vicente.”
“Ah, muchacho! if they but help you, how glad ’twill make me feel! If they’re lost, it wouldn’t be for that I’d grudge the twenty doblones the saddle cost me. I’d give ten times as much to see you seated in it on the plaza of Arispe.”
“I’ll be there, amigo, in less than sixty hours if Crusader hasn’t lost his strength by too long feeding on grass.”
“I fancy you need not fear that, señorito; your horse is one that nothing seems to affect. I still cling to the belief he’s the devil himself.”
“Better believe him an angel—our good angel now, as I hope he will prove himself.”
This exchange of speech between the two who have long been compagnons de chasse, is only an interlude occurring while the ropes are being uncoiled and made ready.
Instead of a loop to be passed around the adventurer’s body, a very different mode for his making descent has been pre-arranged. He is to take seat in the saddle, just as though it were on the back of a horse, and, with feet in the stirrups and hands clutching the cords that suspend it, be so let down. A piece of wood passed under the tree, and firmly lashed to pommel and cantle, will secure its equilibrium.
Finally all is ready, and, the daring rider taking his seat, is soon swinging in mid-air. Hand over hand they lower him down, slowly, cautiously, listening all the while for a signal to be sent up. This they get in due time—a low whistle telling them that he has reached the first ledge, though they could tell it by the strain upon the rope all at once having ceased.
Up it is drawn again, its owner himself, in turn, taking seat in it, to be lowered down as the other. Then again and again it is hoisted up and let down, till half a score of the miners, stalwart men, Robert Tresillian among them, stand on the bench below.
Now the saddle is detached and fastened on to another rope, when the same process is repeated; and so on, advantage being taken of the sloping ledges, till the last is arrived at.
Here it is but a repetition of what has gone before, only with a longer reach of rope; and here Pedro Vicente takes last leave of the youth who has become so endeared to him.
In the eye of the honest gambusino there is that not often seen there, a tear. He flings his arms around the English youth, exclaiming:
“Dios te guarda, muchacho valiente! (God guard you, my brave lad).”
The parting between the two is almost as affectionate as that between Henry and his father, the last saying, as he enfolds his son in his arms:
“God go with you, my noble boy!” In another moment the daring youth is once more in the saddle, going down, down, till he feels his feet upon the plain. Then stepping out of it, and sending up the preconcerted signal, he detaches saddle and bridle from the cords, leaving the latter to swing free.
Shouldering the horse gear with other impedimenta, he looks round to get his bearings, and, soon as satisfied about these, starts off over the plain in search of Crusader.
He is not the only one at that moment making to find the horse. From the Indian camp a picked party has issued forth, urged by the chief. For the new leader of the Coyoteros longs to possess that now famous steed as much as did the deceased one.
“Ten of my best mustangs, and as many of my mules, will I give for the black horse of the paleface. He who captures him may claim that reward.”
More than once has El Zopilote thus declared himself, exciting the ardour and cupidity of his followers. Withal they have chased Crusader in vain, over and over again, till in their superstitious fancy they begin to think him a phantom.
But as yet they have never tried to take him by night; and now, having ascertained the place where he usually passes the nocturnal hours, they start out in quest of him.
Not rashly nor incautiously; instead, they proceed deliberately, and with a preconceived plan, as though stalking game. Their intention is first to enfilade the animal at long distance off, then contract the circle, so as to have him sure.
In execution of their scheme, on reaching the western side of the lake, they divide into two parties. One moves along the mountain’s foot, dropping a file here and there; the other strikes out over the llano, in a circular line, as it proceeds doing the same.
It is too dark for them to see horse or other object at any great distance, so they take care that their circle be wide enough to embrace the stretch of pasture where the coveted animal is known to browse.
Noiselessly they execute the movement, going at a slow walk, lest the hoof-strokes of their horses may alarm the one they would enclose; and when the heads of the separated parties again come together, all know it by a signal agreed upon—the cry of the coyote transmitted along their line admonishes them that the cordon is complete.