It is a day of anxious solicitude. If the night turn out a dark one,
the messengers whom fate has chosen for the perilous enterprise are to
set out on their errand. They know it is to be a moonless one, but for
all, in the diaphanous atmosphere of that upland plateau, it may be too
clear to make the passing of the Indian sentinels at all possible.
The afternoon begets hope: a bank of heavy clouds is seen rising along
the western sky, which, rolling higher and higher, brings on a downpour
of rain. It is of short continuance, however--over before sunset, the
clouds again dispersing. Then the darkness comes down, but for a long
time only in a glimmering of grey, the stars in grand sheen making it
almost as clear if there was moonlight.
The sentinels can be seen in their old places like a row of dark stakes,
conspicuous against the green turf on which they are stationed. They
are at short distances apart, and every now and then forms are observed
moving from one to the other, as if to keep them continuously on the
alert.
So thus, nigh up to the hour of midnight, and the miners begin to
despair of their messengers being able to pass out--at least, on this
night.
But soon, to their satisfaction, something shows itself promising a
different result. The surface of the lake has suddenly turned white, as
if under a covering of snow. It is fog. Through the heated atmosphere
the lately-fallen rain is rising in vapour, and within its misty shroud
it envelopes not only the lake, but the plain around its edges. It
rolls over the line of savage watchers, on up between the jaws of the
chine, till in its damp clammy film it embraces the bodies of those who
are waiting above.
"Now's your time, _muchachos_!" says Don Estevan, addressing himself to
those who are to adventure. "There could not be a better opportunity;
if they can't be passed now, they never can."
The two men are there ready, and equipped for the undertaking. Young
fellows both, with a brave look, and no sign of quailing or desire to
back out. Each carries a small wallet of provisions strapped to his
person, with a pistol in his belt, but no other arms or accoutrements to
encumber them. In subtleness and activity, more than mere physical
force, lie their chances of success.
A shaking of hands with such of their old comrades as are near,
farewells exchanged when they pass over the parapet of loose stones to
commence the descent, with many a "_va con Dios_!" sent after them in
accents of earnest prayerfulness. Then follows an interregnum of
profound silence, during which time they at the ravine's head listen
with keenest anxiety.
After a few seconds a slight rustling below tells that one of the two
has made a slip, or pushed a stone out of place; but nothing comes of
it. Then a horse neighs in the distant camp, and soon after another,
neither of them having any significance. No more the screaming of
wild-fowl at the lower end of the lake, nor the querulous cry of
"chuck-will's widow," hawking high over it. None of these sounds have
any portent as to the affair in hand, and they, listening, begin to hope
that it has succeeded--for surely there has been time for the two men to
have got beyond the guarded line?
Hope premature, alas! to be disappointed. Up out of the mist comes the
sound of voices, as if in hail, followed by dubious response, and quick
succeeding a struggle with shots. Then a cry or two as in agony, a
shout of triumph, and all silent as before.
For the rest of the night they on the _mesa_ sleep not. Too surely has
their scheme failed, and their messengers fallen victims to it. If they
were any doubts about this, these are set at rest at an early hour of
the morning.
Sad evidence they have to convince them. On the spot where the
scalp-dance had taken place a red pole is again erected, as the other
ornamented with the skins of human heads. But not now to be danced
around; though for a time they, looking from above, think there is to be
a repetition of that savage ceremony. Soon they are undeceived, and
know it to be a spectacle still more appalling. From the camp they see
a man conducted, whom they identify as one of their ill-fated
messengers. Taken on to the stake, he is placed back against it, with
arms extended and strapped to a cross-piece, in a way representing the
figure of the Crucifixion. His breast has been stripped bare, and on it
is seen painted in white the hideous symbol of the Death's head and
crossbones.
For what purpose all this display? the spectators conjecture among
themselves. Not long till they have the answer. They see several
scores of the savages range themselves at a certain distance off, each
gun in hand, one after the other taking aim and discharging his piece at
the human target. Gradually the disc on the breast is seen to darken,
turning red, till at length not a spot of white is visible. But long
ere this the head of the hapless victim, drooped over his shoulder,
tells that he is dead.
The cruel tragedy is repeated, showing now what was not known before,
that both the ill-starred couriers had been taken alive. He brought
forth next is recognisable, by the picturesque dress still on his
person, as the _vaquero_. But when taken up to the stake he is stripped
of it, the velveteen _jaqueta_ pulled from off his shoulders, his shirt
torn away, leaving his breast bare. Then with a hurried touch, the
grim, ghastly device is limned upon him, and he is taken up to the pole
as the other.
A fresh fusillade commences, the white gradually showing dimmer, till at
length it is deeply encrimsoned, and the _vaquero_ is a lifeless corpse.
When it is all over, the Coyoteros turn towards the gorge, and looking
up, give utterance to wild yells of triumph, brandishing their weapons
in a threatening manner, as much as to say, "That's the way we'll serve
you all, when the time comes."