“We don’t need rope to reach much more than a third of it.”
“Indeed! Explain yourself, Don Pedro.”
“I will, your worship, and it is thus. I’ve examined the cliff carefully, where the sheep went over. There are ledges at intervals; it is true not wide, but broad enough for the animal to have dropped upon and stuck. They can cling to the rocks like squirrels or cats. Some of the ledges run downwards, then zigzag into others, also with a downward slope; and the ram must have followed these, now and then making a plunge, where it became necessary, to alight on his hoofs or horns, as the case might be. Anyhow, he got safe to the bottom, as we know, and where it went down, so may we.”
There is a pause of silence, all looking pleased for the words of the gambusino have resuscitated hopes that had almost died out. They can see the possibility he speaks of, their only doubt and drawback being the fear they may not have rope enough.
“It seems but a question of that,” says Don Estevan, as if speaking reflectingly to himself.
The others are also considering, each trying to recall how much and how many of their trail-ropes were brought up in that hasty debendade from their camp below.
“Por Dios! your worship,” rejoins the gambusino, “it is no question of that whatever. We have the materials to make cords enough, not only to go down the cliff, but all round the mountain. Miles, if it were needed!”
“What materials?” demanded several of the party, mystified.
“Mira!” exclaims the gambusino. “This!” He starts up from a bundle of dry mezcal-leaves on which he has been seated, pushing it before him with his foot.
All comprehend him now, knowing that the fibre of these is a flax, or rather hemp, capable of being worked into thread, cloth, or cordage; and they know that on the mesa is an unlimited supply of it.