Hushed, and listening with all ears, the watchers hear nothing; at least, no sound of a suspicious nature. But Indians can creep, or climb, noiselessly as cats—the Coyoteros especially—in this respect equalling the animal from which they have their name. And they may be worming their way up for all, snake-like among the stems of the mesquites and cactus plants.
“Speaking for myself,” says the gambusino, after a time, “I haven’t much fear of them trying that trick. But if you think it worth while, camarados, to give them a hint—and perhaps it may be as well—we can spare a few of these pebbles.” He points to the collected stones. “Half a dozen or so will do it.”
His camarades comprehend his meaning; and as Don Estevan has returned to his tent leaving him in command of the picket, they signify their approval of his design, all desiring it.
On the instant after, a rock pushed over the edge goes crashing down, breaking off branches, loosening other stones in its way, all in loud rumbling borne together to the level below. But they elicit no response, save the echo of their own noise, no shriek or cry, as if man were caught and bruised by them.
After a time another is launched, with like result, then another and another at measured intervals—for they must husband their ammunition—the watchers all the while without fear that man, red or white, will face such an avalanche, dangerous as any that ever swept down the slope of Alps.
At the earliest dawn they desist as soon as they can trust to their eyes. And now, scanning the plain below, they see at the bottom of the gorge only the rocks they had rolled down, with the other débris. Farther out they perceive the line of dusky sentinels, just as they expected it to be; but no other human form, living or dead. The Coyotero chief is dead for all that—carried to the camp of the palefaces, inside the great tent, where he now lies face upward; the pale, crepusculous light stealing in to show that hideous device on his breast, symbol of death itself, no longer a disc of white, but flaked and mottled red, with a darker spot of ragged edging in the centre where it was pierced by the gambusino’s bullet.
Just as the sun begins to show above the horizon’s edge, again go up the crooning cries, but now in more measured strain. For the savages are collected in the corral, a choice party of them under direction of their medicine man ranged about the marquee, not standing still, but circling round and round it in a slow, saltatory step—in short, dancing the “death-dance.”
It is accompanied by chants and incantations, in the voice of the medicine chief himself, pitched louder than the rest, with a pause at intervals, to speak eulogies of the deceased, praise of his valour and virtues, ending in a passionate appeal to his followers to avenge his death. They need not the stimulus of such exhortation. In the eyes of all vengeance is already glowing, burning, and but flashes a little angrier as they respond in a vociferous and united yell.
They upon the mesa are not witnesses to this odd ceremony, only a portion of the camp being within their view. But ere long they have another under their eyes—a spectacle equally exciting, and of like grave portent to themselves.