We must return to the camp of Don Antonio, where the firing had also been heard, and where it had given rise to a host of conjectures.
Evening had come on, and red clouds marked the fiery trace of the setting sun; the earth began to freshen up at the approach of night, and the crescent of the moon to grow more and more brilliant, under the light of which the camp appeared picturesque.
On the rising ground which overlooked the whole entrenchment, arose, as we have said, the chief’s tent with its floating banner. A feeble light from within indicated that he was still watching, and several fires, made in holes dug in the sand or surrounded by stones—lest their light should betray their position—threw a subdued red glare around; while, in case of attack, fagots were prepared to illumine the camp. Groups of men lying down, and others preparing the evening meal, were mingled with the horses and mules, who were eating their rations of maize.
The careless and satisfied look upon every face, showed that these men confided the care of their defence wholly to their chief. At the entrance to the tent lay a man, like a dog watching over his master; and from his long hair and the guitar by the side of his rifle, it was easy to recognise Oroche. His time seemed to be divided between the contemplation of a heaven glittering with stars, and the care of keeping up a fire of green wood, the smoke of which rose in a vertical column silvered by the moon. Beyond the entrenchments the moonlight whitened the plain, and even the fog which covered the summits of a chain of mountains which were visible in the horizon.
Behind the carts paced the sentinels, carbine in hand. Among the various groups of men scattered about were Benito, the servant of Don Estevan, and Baraja. They were engaged in conversation.
“Señor Benito,” said Baraja, speaking to the old herdsman, “you who are so well acquainted with all the affairs of these deserts, can you explain to me what is the cause of these shots, which we have been hearing ever since noon, and which can only be fired by our enemies, the Indians?”
“It is difficult to say,” answered Benito; “but certainly they must have some good reason for wasting so much powder—a scarce article among them. It appears probable enough that poor Cuchillo is captured; or may be the Señor Gayferos, who was sent after him.”
“But why should they keep firing from time to time?—one shot would be enough to put an end to either Cuchillo or Gayferos; whereas we have heard volleys.”
“Ah! it may be that the savages are practising one of their horrible modes of punishment—perhaps they are firing at their victims merely for the sport. There is one terrible torture they inflict—I remember to have been—”
“Hold there, friend Benito!” cried Baraja, interrupting him, “no more of your horrible stories; I have not forgotten that frightful night by the well of La Poza.”