Meanwhile Don Estevan, the two Tresillians, and Vicente spend most of the morning on the cliff where the bighorn went over, surveying it from every possible point, taking the bearings of its ledges, and estimating their distances from one another. They are, as the gambusino had represented them, a succession of very narrow benches, but wide enough for a man to find footing; some horizontal, others with a slope downwards, then a zigzag bringing them lower, till within a hundred feet from the cliff’s base the façade of rocks shows sheer and clear. Down to this point all will be easy; and beyond it they anticipate little difficulty, now that they are sure of having sufficient rope.
While engaged in their reconnaissance, an object comes under their eyes which they gaze upon with interest. They are upon the western side of the mesa not far above its southern point, the plain on that side being invisible from the camp of the besiegers; and on this, at the distance of a mile or more, there is a spot of pasture due to a tiny rivulet, which, filtering off from the side of the lake, becomes dispersed over a considerable surface, which it moistens and makes green.
Moving to and fro over this verdant stretch is the object which has caught their attention—a horse of large size and coal-black colour, which they know to be no other than Crusader. They are not surprised at seeing him there. Habitually he frequents this spot, which has become his accustomed pasturing-ground, and more than once had Henry Tresillian stood on that cliff regarding him with fond affectionate gaze; more than once, too, had the Indians again gone in chase of him, to be foiled as before. There is he still unlassoed, free of limb as the antelopes seen flitting over the llano around him.
After completing the examination of their precipice, and noting all details that may be needed to help out their design, they stand for a time gazing at the horse, his young master with a thought in his mind which he withholds from the others. Nor does he communicate it to them till after their return to the camp, and the question comes up, who are the ones to be lowered down; for it is thought better that two messengers should be sent, as company and support to each other. That is the question to be decided, and up to this hour all expect it to be as before—by lottery.
In fine, when the time arrives for settling it, and the eligible ones are again assembled for drawing lots, a proposal is made which takes every one present by surprise. It comes from the youngest of the party, Henry Tresillian, who says:
“Let me go alone.”
All eyes turn upon him inquiringly and in wonder, none more than those of his father, who exclaims:
“You go alone, my son! Why do you propose that?”
“Because it will be best, father.”
“How best? I do not understand you.”