The "stone artillery" has been got together; a huge pile of it, forming
at the same time protecting parapet and battery of guns; the men have
desisted from their work, and having nothing more to do, at least for a
time, stand listening for the signals. They know that such have been
arranged, without having been told their exact bearing.
But they are soon to learn it; almost instantly after hearing a shot,
and then quick succeeding it another, as the discharges from a
double-barrelled gun.
"The Indians coming on, and near!" says Don Estevan, interpreting to
those around. "We may look to see them soon yonder."
He nods towards the abandoned camp, a portion of which is visible from
the head of the gorge.
This causes a turning of all eyes in its direction, and on the _llano_
beyond. But scarce have they commenced scanning it when two other
shots, less loud but with a like interval between, reach their ears,
proceeding from the same quarter.
"The pistols--signals three and four!" mechanically pronounces the
ex-officer of dragoons, his sallow features showing further clouded.
"There's no more to listen for now," he adds. "Don Pedro was right.
Apaches they must be, and on a marauding expedition--likely for the
towns of the Horcasitas, and, unluckily, we in their way. Ah, _amigos_!
it's an ill look-out for us; could not well be worse."
But worse it is, as they are yet to learn. And soon do learn from the
lips of the _gambusino_, who, returning in breathless haste, cries out
ere he is up to them,
"_Los Coyoteros_! The band of El Cascabel!"
Words of terrible portent, needing no explanation, for they recall to
the minds of all present that sanguinary incident already alluded to.
The dastardly deed of Captain Perez and his ruffianly soldiery is likely
to be retaliated on men, not only themselves guiltless, but every one of
whom has condemned it! For how can they expect mercy from the friends
and relatives of his murdered victims? How hope for any distinction or
exception in their favour? They cannot, and do not, knowing that ever
since that inhuman massacre the Apaches have treated every paleface as a
foe, the Coyoteros killing all prisoners that fall into their hands,
after torturing them.
"You think it's the band of Cascabel?"
It is Don Estevan who questions in rejoinder to the _gambusino's_ brief
but expressive report.
"Think! I'm sure of it, your worship. Through this good glass of yours
I recognised that savage himself, knowing him too well. It enabled me
to make out his _totem_, the pretty device on his breast, of which this
on mine's but a poor copy. _Mira_!"
While speaking, he unbuttons his shirt-front and draws the plaits apart,
as a screen from some precious picture, exposing to the view of all what
he had already shown to Henry Tresillian. As most of them remember
having heard of the sepulchral symbol borne by the Coyotero chief, with
that other more appropriate to his name, they now know the sort of enemy
that is approaching, and what they have to expect. No more among them
is there hope of either friendship or mercy. On one side, the stronger,
it will be attack hostile and vengeful; on the other, and weaker--
theirs, alas!--it must be resistance and defence even unto death.
Though fully convinced of this, the miners remain calm, with that
confidence due to danger seeming still distant. They know they are safe
for the time, unassailable, the _gambusino_ having given them assurance
of it. But they now see it for themselves, and any apprehensions they
have are less for the present than the future. Sure are they that a
siege is before them, how long they cannot guess, nor in which way it
will terminate. And there may be chances of relief or escape they have
not thought of. Hope is hard to kill, and the least hopeful of them has
not yet yielded to despair. Time enough for that when starvation stares
them in the face, for hunger--famine--is the foe they have most to fear.
But they think not of things so far ahead. They must first see the
enemy of which their guide has given such awe-inspiring account; and,
with glances sent abroad and over that portion of the plain visible to
them, they await his appearance on it.
Nearly another hour elapses without any enemy seen. The horses and
mules have got over their late excitement, and are again tranquilly
depasturing, some having waded into the lake to cool their hoofs, still
hot after their long _jornada_. But none wander away from the proximity
of the camp; the only animals out on the plain being prong-horn
antelopes, a herd of which, on their way to the water too, has been
deterred approaching it by the presence of huge monsters unknown to
them--the wagons. But these have not hindered the approach of the
black-winged birds; instead, attracted them, and a large flock is now
around the abandoned camp, some wheeling above, others at rest on the
ground or perched upon the rock-boulders which bestrew it. A crowd,
collected on the spot where the ox had been butchered for breakfast,
contest possession of its offal.
All of a sudden, and simultaneously, a movement is perceptible among the
animals, birds as quadrupeds, the wild as the tame. The prong-horns
with a snort raise their heads aloft as if they saw or scented some new
danger, then lope off at lightning speed. The vultures take wing, but
only rise a little way into the air, to soar round in circles; while the
horses, mules, and horned cattle, as if seized by a frenzy of madness,
rush excitedly about, wildly neighing and bellowing, at each instant
threatening to break away in stampede.
"They smell redskin," knowingly observes the _gambusino_, who is among
the rest watching their movements. "Yes; and we'll soon see the ugly
thing itself. _Chingara_! yonder it is."
He has no need to point out either the thing or the place. The eyes of
all are now on it; the head of a dusky cohort just appearing round the
eastern projection of the Cerro, becoming elongated as file after file
unfolds itself. They are still afar off--at least a league--nor is
their line of march directed towards the mountain, but westward, as
though they intended turning it.
No such manoeuvre is meant, however, as the miners, forewarned by their
guide, are already aware. His words are made good by their seeing soon
after another dark line developing itself on the _llano_, at a like
distance off, but coming from the opposite direction.
"The party that went west about," says the _gambusino_, half in
soliloquy; "cunning in them to make a complete surround of us. I
suppose they thought we were but horsemen, and might get away from them.
If they'd seen our wagons, it would have saved them some trouble.
Well, they see everything now."
No one makes rejoinder, all intently gazing at the two marching bands,
now with eyes on one, then quickly transferred to the other. The
portion of the plain visible is sextant-shaped--the view on either side
cut off by the flanking ridges of the ravine--and from each side the
string of savage horsemen is continuously lengthening out. Not rapidly,
but in slow leisurely crawl, as if confident they had already secured
the enfiladement of the camp. With a thicker concentration near the
head of each, and a metallic sparkle all along their line--the sheen of
their armour under the rays of the meridian sun--they appear as two huge
serpents of antediluvian age, deliberately drawing towards one another
either for friendship or combat.
In due time their front files come together, near the central part of
the sextant; though the rear ones are still invisible;--how many of
these no one knows, save approximately. Enough, however, are already in
sight to make a formidable array, and put all thought of conflict with
them out of the question. The miners but congratulate themselves on
their fortune in finding that secure place of retreat, which will enable
them to shun it. Grateful are they to their guide for making it known--
and they have reason. If within their late camp instead of where they
now are, the hours of their life would be numbered--perhaps to count
only minutes. At the best they could but save bare life for a time, but
nothing to comfort or sustain it.
All this they have come to comprehend thoroughly as they continue to
watch the movements of the Coyoteros, and see the cordon these have
drawn around them. But for some minutes there is no movement at all,
the bands after uniting having come to a halt, the files making
quarter-wheel, so as to face the Cerro--all done as by trained cavalry
on a parade-ground! And for a while they stay halted, the change of
front giving their alignment a thinner look. But at the central point
is a thicker clump, without military formation, on which Don Estevan
directs his telescope. To see half a dozen of the mounted savages face
to face with one another, earnestly, excitedly gesticulating. After a
look through it, he tenders the glass to the _gambusino_, who may better
understand what they are about.
"El Cascabel and his sub-chiefs in consultation," pronounces the latter,
soon as sighting them. "It's plain they're puzzled by seeing wagons
where never were such before. Like as not they think we're _soldados_,
and that makes them cautious. But they'll soon know different. _Por
Dios_! they know it now. They're coming on!"