It is some time before the Indians recover from their mystification. Is
the black horse flesh and blood, or a phantom?
Not until they have closed together and taken counsel of one another is
this question resolved. The wiser of them affirm that in some way one
of the palefaces must have got down the cliff, caught the horse, and
mounted him. That the rider, at least, is a mortal being they have
ample evidence in their comrade stretched dead upon the plain by a
bullet.
The sight rekindles all their ire, and shouts of vengeance make the
welkin ring. But only for a while. Silence again reigns, and the
hoof-strokes of the retreating fugitive can be heard through the
tranquil calm of the night, stirring them to pursuit.
Away go they in gallop after; but not all, nearly half of them turning
their horses' heads towards the cliff. For if the white men have let
one of their number down, there should be some sign of it, which they
proceed to search for.
Impossible to depict the feelings of those on the _mesa_, above all, the
ones who have been standing on the ledges to await the result. They
cannot have themselves hoisted up again till sure their messenger has
either failed or got free, and from the moment of his parting from the
cliff's base, to them all had been uncertainty. Terrible suspense, too,
from the very first; for although they saw not the Indians passing
underneath, they heard their horses' tread, now and then a hoof striking
against stone, or in dull thud upon the hard turf. Though they could
not make out what it meant, they knew it was something adverse--hostile.
Horses would not be there without men on their backs, and these must be
enemies.
Listening on, with hearts anxiously beating, they hear that strange
concatenation of cries, the supposed howling of coyotes, all around the
plain. It puzzles them, too; but before they have time to reflect on it
a sound better understandable reaches their ears--the neighing of a
horse--most of them recognising it as Crusader's, for most are familiar
with its peculiar intonation.
More intently than ever do they listen now, but for a time hear nothing
more. Only a brief interval; then arise sounds that excite their
apprehension to its keenest--voices of men, in confused clamouring, the
accent proclaiming them Indians.
Robert Tresillian, still standing beside the _gambusino_ on the lowest
ledge, feels his heart sink within him, as he exclaims: "My poor boy!
lost--lost!"
"Wait, senor," says Vicente, with an effort to appear calm. "That's not
so sure. All's not lost that's in danger. If there be a chance of
escape your brave son's the very one to take advantage of it. _Oiga_!
what's that?"
His question has reference to another chorus of cries heard out on the
plain; then a moment's lull, succeeded by a crashing sound as of two
heavy bodies brought into collision. After that a shot, quickly
followed by a yell--a groan.
"A pistol!" exclaims the _gambusino_, "and sure the one Senorito
Henrique took with him. I'll warrant he's made good use of it."
The father is too full of anxious thought to make reply; he but listens
on with all ears, and heart audibly pulsating.
Next to hear the hoof-strokes of a horse in gallop as if going off;
which in a way cheers him: it may be his son escaped.
But then there is more confused clamour, with loud ejaculations--voices
raised in vengeance; and after the trampling of other horses, apparently
starting in pursuit.
What is to be done now?--draw up the rope, and have themselves drawn up?
There seems no reason for their waiting longer. The messenger is
either safe off, or has been captured; one way or the other he will not
get back there. So they may as well reascend the cliff.
Besides, a thought of their own safety now forces itself upon them. A
streak of light along the horizon admonishes them of the uprising moon.
Already her precursory rays, reflected over the plain, begin to lighten
the obscurity, rendering objects more distinct, and they now make out a
dark mass on the _llano_ below, a party of horsemen, moving in the
direction of the _mesa_.
"We'd better pull up, Don Roberto," says the _gambusino_; "they're
coming this way, and if they see the rope it will guide their eyes to
ourselves, and we're both lost men. They carry guns, and we'll be
within easy range, not over thirty yards from them. _Por Dios_! if they
sight us we're undone."
Don Roberto makes neither protest nor objection. By this his son has
either got clear or is captured: in either case, he cannot return to
them. And, as his companion, he is keenly sensible to the danger which
is now threatening, so signifies assent.
Silently they draw up the rope, and soon as it is all in their hands,
signal to those above to hoist them also. First one, making it fast
round his body, is pulled up; then the loop is let down, and the other
ascends, raised by an invisible power above.
Four are now on the next ledge, and, by like course of proceeding are
lifted one after another to that still higher, the sloping benches
between helping them in their ascent. All is done noiselessly,
cautiously; for the savages are now seen below in dark clump, stationary
near the foot of the precipice.
They have reached the last bench, and so far unmolested, begin to think
themselves out of danger,
But alas, no! The silence long prevailing is suddenly broken by a rock
displaced and rolling down; while at the same moment the treacherous
moon, showing over the horizon's edge, reveals them to the eyes of the
Indians.
Then there is a chorus of wild yells, followed by shots--a very
fusillade; bullets strike the rocks and break fragments off, while other
shots fired in return by those above into the black mass below instantly
disperse it.
In the midst of all, the last man is drawn up to the summit, but when
landed there, they who draw him up see that the rope's noose is no
longer round a living body, but a corpse, bleeding, riddled with
bullets.