"_Mira! El Cerro Perdido_!" (See! The Lost Mountain!)
The man who thus exclaims is seated in a high-peak saddle, on the back
of a small sinewy horse. Not alone, as may be deduced from his words;
instead, in company with other men on horseback, quite a score of them.
There are several wagons, too; large cumbrous vehicles, each with a team
of eight mules attached. Other mules, pack animals, form an _atajo_ or
train, which extends in a long line rearward, and back beyond this a
drove of cattle in charge of two or three drovers--these mounted, as a
matter of course.
The place is in the middle of a vast plain, one of the _llanos_ of
Sonora, near the northern frontier of this sparsely inhabited state.
And the men themselves, or most of them, are miners, as might be told by
certain peculiarities of costume, further evinced by a paraphernalia of
mining tools and machinery seen under the canvas tilts of the wagons.
There are women seen there too, with children of both sexes and every
age; for it is a complete mining establishment on the move from a
_veta_, worn out and abandoned, to one late discovered and still
unworked.
Save two of the party all are Mexicans though not of like race. Among
them may be noted every shade of complexion, from the ruddy white of the
Biscayan Spaniard to the copper-brown of the aboriginal, many being
pure-blooded Opata Indians, one of the tribes called _mansos_ (tamed).
Distinctive points of dress also, both as to quality and cut, denote
difference in rank and calling. There are miners _pur sang_--these in
the majority; teamsters who drive the wagons; _arrieros_ and _mozos_ of
the mule train; _vaqueros_ with the cattle; and several others, male and
female, whose garb and manner proclaim them household servants.
The man who has called out differs from all the rest in costume as in
calling, for he is a _gambusino_, or professional gold-seeker. A
successful one, too; since he it is who discovered the _veta_ above
spoken of, in the Great Sonora Desert, near the border-line of Arizona.
"Denounced" it as well--that is, made declaration and registration of
the discovery, which, by Mexican law, makes the mine his own, with
exclusive right of working it. But he is not its owner now. Without
sufficient means to undertake the _exploitation_, he has transferred his
interest to those who can--Villanueva and Tresillian, a wealthy mining
firm, long established near the town of Arispe, with all their
_employes_ and a complete apparatus for excavating, crushing, and
amalgamating--furniture and household gods added--are _en route_ for the
new-found lode, with high hopes it may prove a "bonanza." It is their
caravan that is halted on the plain, for to halt it has come at a hail
from the _gambusino_ himself, acting as its guide.
He is some distance in advance of the wagons with two other horsemen, to
whom his speech is particularly addressed. For they are the chiefs of
the caravan--the masters and partners of the mining company composing
it. One of them, somewhat over middle age, is Don Estevan Villanueva, a
born Mexican, but with features of pure Spanish type, from his
Andalusian ancestry. He is somewhat the senior of the two, and senior
partner of the firm, the junior being Robert Tresillian, an Englishman,
and native of Cornwall.
Up to that moment there had been anxiety on the countenances of both, as
on those of their followers, indeed more, a look of gravest
apprehension. Its cause is apparent; a glance along the line of
animals--ridden horses as well as draught and pack-mules--clearly
proclaiming it. All show signs of distress, by sides hollowed in, necks
outstretched and drooping, eyes deep down in their sockets, and tongues
protruding from lips that look hot and dry. No wonder! For three days
they have not tasted water; and the scant herbage of the plains, on
which they have been depasturing, is without a particle of moisture. It
has been a season of drought all over Sonora, not a drop of rain having
fallen for months, and every stream, spring, and pool along their route
dried up. Little strange, then, the animals looking distressed, and no
more that the minds of the men are filled with gloomy fears as to what
might be before them. Another three days, and it may be death to most,
if not all.
Just in like proportion are their spirits uplifted on hearing the
exclamation of the _gambusino_. Well know they what it means--good
grass and abundance of water. All along has he been telling them of
this, picturing the "Lost Mountain," or, rather, a spot by its base, as
a very Paradise of a camping-place. No want of water there, he has
said, however dry the season or long-continued the drought; no fear of
animals being famished, since not only is there a spring and running
stream, but a lake, surrounded by a belt of meadow-like land, with grass
thick, succulent, and green as emeralds.
"You're sure it's the Cerro Perdido?"
It is Don Estevan who thus doubtingly interrogates, his eyes fixed on a
solitary eminence seen afar over the plain.
"_Si_, senor," affirms the guide, "sure as that my name's Pedro Vicente.
And I ought to be sure of that, from what my mother told me; the old
lady in her life never getting over her anger at the cost of my
christening. Twenty silver _pesos_, with a pair of church candles--big
ones, and of best wax! All that for only handing down to me my father's
name, he being Pedro, and a poor _gambusino_ as myself! _Carramba_!
The _padres_ are the veriest extortioners--levy black-mail more
rigorously than either footpad or highwayman."
"_Vaya, hombre_!" rejoins Don Estevan. "Don't be so hard upon the poor
priests. And as for the expense your mother was put to in celebrating
your baptismal rites, that's all past and gone. If you were poor once,
you're now rich enough to care nothing for such a trifle as twenty
dollars and a couple of wax candles."
The senior partner speaks truth, as any one who had seen Pedro Vicente
three months before, seeing him now, would say. Then was he sparely
clad, in garments of faded hue, tattered and dust-stained; his mount the
scraggiest of mustangs--a very Rosinante. Now bestrides he a horse of
best blood and shapely proportions, in a deep tree-saddle of stamped
leather, with ornamental housings; his own body bedight with all the
glittering adornments peculiar to that special Mexican dress known as
"_ranchero_," picturesque as any in the world. His lucky find of gold,
still in its matrix of quartz--_madre de oro_, as the Mexican miners
call it--with its transference to Villanueva y Tresillian, has given him
sufficient of this same metal with the mint stamp on it for all matters
of comfort, costume, and equipment.
"Oh! bother your christening and candles," puts in the Englishman, with
a show of impatience; "we've something more serious to think about.
You're quite sure, Senor Vicente, that yonder eminence is the Cerro
Perdido?"
"I've said," laconically and somewhat gruffly answers the guide, showing
slightly nettled at the doubt cast on his affirmation, and by one he
supposes a stranger to the country and its ways--in short, a "_gringo_."
"Then," pursues Tresillian, "the sooner we get to it the better. It's
ten miles off, I take it."
"Twice ten, _caballero_, and a trifle over."
"What! Twenty miles? I can't believe that."
"If your worship had been roaming about these _llanos_ as long as I
have, you could and would," rejoins the guide, in quiet confidence.
"Oh! if you say so, it must be. You seem to know, Senor Vicente; and
should, from all I've heard of your skill as a path-finder. That you're
good at finding gold we have the proofs."
"_Mil gracias_, Don Roberto," returns the _gambusino_, with a bow, his
_amour propre_ appeased by the complimentary speech; "I've no doubt
about the distance, for I'm not trusting to guesswork. I've been over
this ground before, and remember that big _palmilla_." He points to a
tree at some distance, with stout stem, and a bunch of bayonet-like
leaves on its summit--a species of _yucca_, of which there are several
straggled over the plain, but this one taller than any. Then adds, "If
your worship doubts my word, ride up to it, and you'll see a P and V
carved in the bark, the initials of your humble servant. It was done to
commemorate the occasion of my first setting eyes on the Cerro Perdido."
"But I don't doubt your word," says Tresillian, smiling at the odd
memento in such an out-of-the-way place; "certainly not."
"Then, senor, let me assure you that from it to the mountain is all of
twenty miles, and we'll do well if we get there before sun-down."
"In which case, the sooner we start for it the better."
"Yes, Pedro," adds Don Estevan, speaking to the gold-seeker in a
friendly, familiar way. "Ride back and give the order for resuming
route. Tell the teamsters and all to do their best."
"At your worship's command," returns the _gambusino_, with a bow, and
wave of his broad-brimmed hat raised high over his head.
Then, pricking his horse with a spur having rowels full five inches in
diameter, he canters off towards the caravan.
Before reaching it he again uncovers, respectfully saluting a group
which has not yet been introduced to the reader, though possibly the
oddest, with the individuals comprising it, the most interesting of all
the travelling party. For two of them are of the fair sex--ladies--one
middle-aged and of matronly aspect, the other a girl late entered upon
her teens. Only their faces and the upper portion of their forms are
visible, for they are inside a sort of palanquin--the _litera_ of
Mexico, used by grand dames on long journeys, and roads over which
carriages cannot be taken. The face of the older lady, with dark
complexion and features of Andalusian type, is still attractive, but
that of the younger one strikingly beautiful; and between the two is a
strong family resemblance, as there should, since they are mother and
child--the Senora Villanueva and her daughter.
The _litera_ is borne between two mules, attached to shafts fore and
aft, in charge of a strapping fellow in velveteen jacket, and
_calzoneras_, _botas_ of stamped leather, and _sombrero_ of black glaze,
with a band of silver bullion round it. But there is a fourth personage
comprising the group, unlike all the others, and bearing no resemblance
to any of the wayfarers save one--the Englishman. To him the youth--for
young he is--shows the likeness, unmistakable, of son to father; and
such is the relationship between them.
Henry Tresillian, just turned seventeen, is a handsome fellow,
fair-haired, of bright complexion, and features delicately chiselled,
still aught but effeminate in their expression; instead, of a cast which
proclaims courage and resolution, while a figure tersely knit tells of
strength and activity equal to anything. On horseback, he sits bending
over in his saddle with face to the curtains of the _litera_. There may
be eyes inside admiring him; and the expression of his own tells he
would fain have it so. But all their eyes, late full of gloom, sparkle
delightedly now. The Lost Mountain has been sighted; their fears are
over, and so soon will be their sufferings.
"_Anda! adalante_!" (advance) shouts Pedro Vicente.
His words echoed rearward along the line, followed by other cries, with
a creaking of wheels and a cracking of whips, as the wagons once more
got into motion.