Nor is the vegetable element lacking, but present in all its varieties of root, fruit, and berry. The mezcal, whose baked stem forms staple food for their enemies, grows on the mesa. Its use is known to the gambusino, as others of the miners. Several sorts of mezquitè trees are found there, whose long pendulous siliques contain seeds which can be ground into a meal making nutritious bread, while the cones of the edible pine (Pinus edulis)—“piñon-nuts” as called—are in quantity all around. For fruit there are several varieties of the cactus, with that of pear-shape, and all the rich juiciness of a pear, the famed pitathaya. In short, the Cerro Perdido is a very oasis, its cornucopia peculiar to the desert. With so bountiful a supply of provisions the besieged need not fear famine, at least for a long time. Their resources, carefully husbanded, may last for weeks.
And on time rests their only hope; their sole chance of being rescued depending on that, by some means or other, their situation may become known to their friends at Arispe, or their countrymen elsewhere.
But what likelihood of this? As already stated, the Lost Mountain is out of the line of all travel and traffic. Months, a year, nay, years may elapse ere a wayfarer of any kind stray to it, or near it. So their chances of being seen there by friendly eyes, to say naught of their position being understood, are as those of castaways on a desert isle in mid-ocean.
And as shipwrecked men they hoist signals of distress. Any one approaching that solitary eminence from the south might wonder to see a flag floating from a tall staff over its southern end, giving it all the greater resemblance to a fortress with banner waving above. A tricolour flag, bearing the symbolic badge of the Mexican Republic—the Eagle upon the Nopal! It is that Don Estevan had meant to have erected over the new mine, now little likely ever to be displayed there. For now it is unfolded to tell a tale of threatening disaster, and attract the eyes of those who may do something to avert it.
But for this dark uncertainty of future there is nothing irksome, not even disagreeable, in their present life. On the contrary, it might be even called pleasant; plenty to eat, plenty to drink, sufficient freedom of range, a sapphire sky above, with an atmosphere around them whose heat is tempered by breezes ever blowing, ever laden with the fragrance of fruit and flower.
And no scene of sombre gloomy silence; instead, one enlivened by the notes of many wild warblers, both diurnal and nocturnal. By day the jarring yet cheering cry of the blue jay and the red cardinal; the mewing of the catbird, or the “hew-hew” of hawk in pursuit of his victim. By night, the more melodious, all incomparable song of the czentzontlé—mockingbird of Mexico—oft intermingled with another song, but little less powerful or sweet, that of the cuitlacoche—a second species of New World nightingale, not so well known.
Life in the odd aerial camp now settles down into a sort of routine, each day having its separate calls and duties. The watch is, of course, kept up, and with no falling off in its vigilance. For although the besiegers have not again shown any sign of an intention to try the assault, who knows what may be in the mind of these subtle savages?
Only at night need there be any fear, and only when it is darkest. At other times the vidette duty is a matter of easy fulfilment.
In truth the miners might almost fancy themselves in picnic, having a happy time of it, halfway between earth and heaven. But they are not there by choice, too well knowing its stern necessity. And this, with the dark doubtful future, robs them of all zest for enjoyment. So the hours pass not merrily, but wearily.