The excitement in the camp, already at full height, now changes to a
quick, confused hurrying to and fro, accompanied by cries of many kinds.
Here and there is heard the terrified scream of a woman, who, babe in
arms, fancies the spear of a savage pointed at her breast, to impale
herself and offspring.
There is a rush for the gorge, up which a stream of human forms is soon
seen swarming as ants up their hill. And, with a gallantry which
distinguishes the miner as the mariner, the women and children are
permitted foremost place in the upward retreat, assisted by husbands.
Without serious accident all succeed in reaching the summit, where the
women are left, the men who went with them hurrying back below. It is
hard to part with valuable property and cherished household gods--still
harder to see these appropriated by a hated enemy--and an effort is to
be made for saving what can be saved. At first they only thought of
their lives; but half a dozen men, who had sprung to their horses at the
earliest moment of alarm, and galloped out beyond the mountain's flank
to get better view, signal back that the Indians are not yet in sight.
So there is still a chance to take up a portion of the camp equipage,
with such goods as are likely to be most needed in the event of their
having to sustain a siege.
"The ammunition and provender first!" shouts Vicente, back again at
camp, with full authority of direction. "Take up everything that's food
for man and loading for gun. After that whatever we'll have time for."
Knowing their women now safe, the men work with spirit; and soon a
different sort of stream is seen ascending the gorge: a string of
burden-bearers, continuous from plain to summit; hastily returning down
again, relieved of their loads, to take up others. Never were bees so
busy. Some remain below, getting the goods out of the wagons, and
making packages of them, convenient for the difficult transport. The
bales and boxes--lading of the pack-mules--are broken open, and their
more valuable effects picked out and carried off; so that in a short
space of time not much remains save the mining tools and machinery, with
the heavier articles of house furniture.
Could the Rattlesnake have known of this quick precautionary sacking of
the camp by its owners, he and his would have approached it in greater
haste. But they are seen coming on now. The mounted videttes have at
length signalled them in sight, they themselves galloping in at the same
time, and dropping down from their horses.
There is a last gathering up of bundles, which includes the two smaller
tents--the marquee left standing. Then the final _debandade_; all
turning face towards the gorge, and toiling up it.
No, not all as yet; more than one lingers below. For the horses must
needs be left behind; impossible to take them up a steep where only
goat, sheep, or clawed creature might go. And more than one has a
master who parts with it reluctantly. Regretfully, too, at thought of
its changing owner, and to such owner as will soon enter upon
possession. Even some of the teamsters and muleteers have an affection
for their mules, the head _arriero_ regarding the whole _atajo_ as his
children, and the "bell-mare" almost as a mother. Many a long mile and
league has he listened to her guiding bell; its cheerful tinkle
proclaiming the route clear along narrow dizzy ledge, or through deep
defile. And now he will hear its music no more.
But the ties must be severed, the parting take place. Which it does,
amidst phrases and ejaculations of leave-taking, tender as though the
left ones were human beings instead of dumb brutes. "_Caballo--
caballito querido_!" "_Mula-mulita mia_!" "_Pobre-pobrecita_! _Dios te
guarda_!" And mingled with these are exclamations of a less gentle
kind--anathemas hurled at the redskins coming on to take possession of
their pets.
At this last Pedro Vicente is among the loudest. As yet he has had only
half-payment for his late discovered mine, the remaining moiety
dependent on the working it. And now the crash--all the mining
apparatus to be destroyed--perhaps the purchasing firm made bankrupt, if
even life be left them. Thinking of all this, and what he has already
suffered at the hands of "_Los Indios_" no wonder at his cursing them.
He, however, is not one of those taking affectionate and sentimental
farewell of their animals. His horse is a late purchase, and though of
fine appearance, has proved aught but a bargain. For there are "copers"
in Arispe as elsewhere, and the _gambusino_ has been their victim.
Hence he parts with the disappointing steed neither regretfully nor
reluctantly. But not with the saddle and bridle; these, of elaborate
adornment having cost him far more than the horse. So shouldering them,
he too re-ascends, last of all save one.
That one is Henry Tresillian; and very different is the parting between
him and the animal of his belonging. The English youth almost sheds
tears as he stands by his horse's head, patting his neck and stroking
his muzzle, the last time he may ever lay hand on either. Nay, surely,
too surely, the last. And the noble creature seems to know it too,
responding to the caress by a low mournful whimpering.
"Ah! my beautiful Crusader! to think I must leave you behind! And to be
ridden by a redskin--a cruel savage who will take no care of you. Oh!
it is hard--hard!"
Crusader appears to comprehend what is said, for his answer is something
like a moan. It may be that he interprets the melancholy expression on
his master's face--that master who has been so kind to him.
"A last farewell, brave fellow! Be it a kiss," says the youth, bringing
his lips in contact with those of the horse. Then pulling off the
headstall, with its attached trail-rope, and letting them drop to the
ground, he again speaks the sad word "farewell," and, turning back on
his beloved steed, walks hurriedly and determinedly away, as though
fearing resolution might fail him.
Soon he commences climbing up the gorge; all the others who have gone
before now nearly out of it. But ere he has ascended ten steps, he
hears that behind which causes him to stop and look back. Not in alarm:
he knows it to be the neigh of his own horse, accompanied by the stroke
of his hoofs in quick repetition--Crusader coming on in a gallop for the
gorge. In another instant he is by its bottom, on hind legs, rearing up
against the rocky steep, as if determined to scale it.
In vain: after an effort he drops back on all fours. But to rear up and
try again and again, all the while giving utterance to wild, agonised
neighs--very screams.
To Henry Tresillian the sight is saddening, the sound torture, stirring
his heart to its deepest depths. To escape the seeing--though he cannot
so soon the hearing--he once more turns his back upon the horse, and
hastens on upward. But when halfway to the head, he cannot resist
taking another downward look. Which shows him Crusader yet by the
bottom of the gorge, but now standing still on all fours, as if resigned
to the inevitable. Not silent, however; instead, at short intervals,
giving utterance to that neigh of melancholy cadence, alike proclaiming
discomfiture and despair.