Chapter Thirteen.
A Retributive Shot.
It is midnight, and darkness over mountain and plain; pitch darkness, although there is a moon in the sky. But she is not visible, obscured by a bank of thick cumulus clouds, that have rolled up from the Californian Gulf—portent of an approaching rain-storm.
The savages have gone to rest; or, at all events, brought their noisy revelry to an end, and silence reigns everywhere around, save now and then a snort from a miner’s horse, or mule, with a stamp of hoof, uneasy in their new companionship; the half howl, half bark of prowling coyote, and the wailing of chuck-will’s widow—the nightjar of Sonora—hawking for insects high over the lake. But no sound of human voice is heard, nor through the inky blackness can be seen form of man.
Yet not all are asleep, either above or below. On the plain is a line of sentries, set at distances apart on the outer edge of the triangular space where the path goes up; and inside this, by the bottom of the gorge itself, two other men, though not on sentinel duty.
All Indians, of course; one of the pair by themselves being El Cascabel, the other a sub-chief, his second in command. They are there on reconnoitring purposes, to discover whether it be possible for the besiegers to make the ascent on a dark night unseen, and so take the besieged by surprise.
Since settling down in camp the Rattlesnake has reflected, and a thought is now in his mind making him uneasy. Not regret for having to forego his raid on the settlements of the Horcasitas. Unlikely that the siege would take up any more time, and the booty alone should be ample compensation. For he has made study of the abandoned camp, found every indication of wealth, and feels sure it late held rich treasures. They would reward him for the time lost in beleaguering. And as to the revenge, a whole company of miners—nigh a hundred at least—with their wives and daughters, grand señoras among them too—death to the men, and captivity to the women—that should satisfy the keenest vengeance.
And perhaps it would his, were he sure of accomplishing it. He was before the sun went down, but is not now. For, since, he has thought of that which had not then occurred to him or to any of his following. Might not the miners have sent off a courier back to their own country, with a demand for help? If so, it would surely come; in strength sufficient, and soon enough to raise the siege. For the head men of the besieging force now know it will be a prolonged one. The fragments of provisions found in the wagons tell of a good store taken out of them and up. Game is there in abundance to supplement it, and water never-failing—a fortress in every way supplied. Not so strange, then, the Coyotero chief being nervous at the thought of a courier having been dispatched. For one might, without having been seen by him or his. A long distance it was from where they themselves must have been first sighted by those on the mountain.
But for the obscurity, there are those on it who would see himself and his second now. By the head of the gorge above a party of miners keep guard. They have just come on duty, the relief after a spell of sleep. For Don Estevan, by old experience, knowing there was no clanger of Indian attack in the earlier hours, had entrusted the guard-keeping of these to the more common men. Between midnight and morning is the time to “’ware redskin,” and the guard of this period, now commenced, has been confided to a picked party, two of those composing it being Pedro Vicente and his fidus achates, Henry Tresillian.
Guard it can scarce be called, being only a small vidette-picket. For there is little fear—scarce a thought—that the Indians will attempt the ascent, at least not so soon, or without gravely reflecting upon it.