“We were forced thither, señor, through want of water. The guide advised it, and his advice would have been for the best, but for the ill luck of the savages chancing to come along that way.”
“Muchacho, I won’t confuse you with further questioning, but leave you to tell your tale. We listen. First have a copita of Catalan brandy to refresh you. You seem in need of it.”
“There’s one needs refreshing as much as myself, Señor Colonel; ay, more, and more deserves it.”
“What one! Who?”
“My horse out there. But for him I would not be here.”
“Ah! that’s your grand steed,” says the Colonel, looking out; “I remember him—Crusader. He does seem to need it, and shall have it. Sargento!” This in loud call to an orderly sergeant in waiting outside, who, instantly showing his face at the door, receives command to see the black horse attended to.
“Now, muchacho mio! proceed.”
Henry Tresillian, still speaking hurriedly for reasons comprehensible, runs over all that has occurred to the caravan, since its departure from the worked-out mine near Arispe, till its arrival at the Lost Mountain. Then the unexpected approach of the Indians, resulting in the retreat to the summit of the Cerro, with the other incidents and events succeeding—to that, the latest, of himself being lowered down the cliff, and his after-escape through the fleetness of his matchless steed.
“How many of the Indians are there?” asks the Colonel. “Can you tell that, señorito?”
“Between four and five hundred, we supposed; but they were not all there when I left. Some days before half their number went off on a marauding expedition southward; so our guide believed, as they were dressed and painted as when on the war-trail.”