Finding himself clear of the Indians, Henry Tresillian's heart beats
high with hope; no mischance happening, he can trust Crusader to keep
him clear. And now he turns his thoughts to the direction he should
take. But first to that in which he is going, for he has galloped out
of the encircling line through the nearest opening that caught his eye.
The foretaste of the moonlight enables him to see where he is--luckily,
on the right track. The route to Arispe lies south-eastward, and the
lake must be passed at its upper or lower end. The former is the direct
route, the other around about; but then there is the Indian camp to be
got past, and others of the savages may be up and about. Still the
wagon _corral_ is two or three hundred yards from the water's edge,
which may give him a chance to pass between unobserved, and, with
unlimited confidence in his horse, he resolves upon risking it.
An error of judgment: he has not taken into account the _fracas_ behind,
with the report of his own pistol, and that all this must have been
heard by the redskins remaining in camp. It has nevertheless. The
consequence being that ere he has got half round the upper end of the
lake, he sees the plain in front of him thickly dotted with dark forms--
men on horseback--hears them shouting to one another. A glance shows
him it is a gauntlet too dangerous to be run. The fleetness of his
steed were no surety against gun-shots.
He reins up abruptly, and, with a wrench round, sets head west again,
with the design to do what he should have done at first--turn the lake
below.
The _detour_ will be much greater now: he has passed a large elbow of
it, which must be repassed to get around; but there is no alternative,
and, regretting his mistake, he makes along the back track at best
speed. Not far before finding further reason to be sorry for his
blunder. On that side, too, he sees mounted men directly before him--
those he had lately eluded. They are scattered all over the plain,
apparently in search of him, some riding towards the lake's lower end,
thinking he has gone that way. But all have their eyes on him now, and
place themselves in position to intercept him. His path is beset on
every side, the triumphant cries of the Coyoteros proclaiming their
confidence that they have him at last--sure to capture or kill him now.
And his own heart almost fails him: go which way he will, it must be
through a shower of bullets.
Again he reins up, and sits in his saddle undecided. The risk seems
equal, but it must be run; there is no help for it.
Ha! yes, there is. A thought has flashed across his brain--a memory.
He remembers having seen the camp animals wading the lake through and
through; not over belly-deep. Why cannot Crusader?
With quick resolve he sets his horse's head for the water, and in a
second or two after the animal is up to the saddle-girths, plunging
lightly as if it were but fetlock-deep.
Another cry from the Indians on both sides--surprise and disappointment
mingled; in tones telling of their belief in the supernatural, and come
back.
But soon they, too, recall the shallowness of the lake, and see nothing
strange in the fugitive attempting to escape across it. So, without
loss of time, they again put their horses to speed, making to head him
on its eastern shore.
They are as near as can be to succeeding. A close shave it is for the
pursued messenger, who, on emerging from the water, sees on either flank
horsemen hastening towards him. But he is not dismayed. Before any of
them are within shot range he dashes onward; Crusader, with sinews
braced by the cool bath, showing speed which ensures him against being
overtaken.
He is pursued, nevertheless. The subtle savages know there are chances
and mischances. One of the latter may arise in their favour; and hoping
it will be so, they continue the chase.
The moon is now up, everything on the level _llano_ distinguishable for
miles, and the black horse with his pale-faced rider is still less than
twenty lengths ahead; so after him they go, fast as their mustangs can
be forced.
Only to find that in brief time the twenty lengths have become doubled,
then trebled, till in fine they see that it is fruitless to carry the
pursuit further.
With hearts full of anger and chagrin, they give it up. Some
apprehension have they as well. El Zopilote is not with them; what will
he say on their returning empty-handed? what do? For it is now no mere
matter of the catching of a horse; instead, more serious--a courier gone
off to bring succour to the besieged.
Down-hearted and dejectedly they turn their horses' heads, and ride back
for Nauchampa-tepetl.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Had the Coyoteros stuck to their faith in the probability of accidents
and continued the pursuit, they might have overtaken Henry Tresillian
after all. For scarce have they turned backs upon him when a mishap
befalls him, not absolutely staying him in his course, but delaying him
wellnigh an hour. He is making to regain the road which runs north from
Arispe, at the point where the caravan, forced by want of water, had
deflected from it to the Cerro Perdido. In daylight he could have
ridden straight to it; for since then from the _mesas_ summit Pedro
Vicente had pointed to guide-marks indicating the spot where his
initials were carved upon the _palmida_. But in his haste now, amid the
glamour of a newly-risen moon, the messenger has gone astray, only
discovering it when his horse suddenly staggering forward comes down
upon his knees, shooting him out of the saddle.
He is less hurt than surprised. Never before has Crusader made false
step or stumble, and why now?
A moment reveals the reason: the ground has given way beneath, letting
him down knee-deep into a hole, the burrow of some animal.
Fortunately, there are no bones broken, no damage done either to horse
or rider; and the latter, recovering his seat in the saddle, essays to
proceed. Soon to be a second time brought to a stand, though not now
unhorsed. Crusader but lurches, keeping his legs, though again near
going down.
The young Englishman perceives what it is: he is riding through a warren
of the kind well known on the plains of Western America as "a
prairie-dog town or village." In the moonlight he sees the hillocks of
these marmots all around, with the animals themselves squatting on them;
hears their tiny squirrel-like bark, intermingling with the hoot of the
quaint little owl which shares their subterranean habitations.
Once more at halt, he again bethinks himself what is best to do. Shall
he ride back and go round the village, or continue on across it, taking
the chances of the treacherous ground?
He listens, soon to become assured that the pursuit has been abandoned,
thus giving him choice to act deliberately, and do as seems best to him.
Around the dog town may be miles, while direct to the other side may be
only a few score yards. They are often of oblong shape, extending far,
but of little breadth, possibly because of the condition of the ground
and the herbage it produces.
Having ridden into it, he resolves to keep on; but to his great
annoyance and disgust finds it to extend far beyond the limits of his
patience; and as Crusader's hoofs break through the hollow crust, it
becomes necessary to alight and lead him.
At length, however, he is out of it, and again on firm ground, with the
level _llano_ far stretching before him. But in the distance he
discerns a mountain ridge, trending north and south, lit up by the
moon's light, along which, as he knows, lies the route to Arispe.
"We're on the right road now, my noble Crusader, with no fear of being
followed. And we must make it short as possible. The lives of many
depend on that--on your speed, brave fellow. So let us on."
Crusader responds with one of his strangely-intoned whimperings--almost
speech. Then stands motionless, till his young master is in the saddle;
after which he again goes off in a gallop, _ventre a terre_.