Another ten days have elapsed, and they on the Cerro Perdido are held
there rigorously as ever; a strong guard kept constantly stationed at
both points where it is possible for them to reach the plain.
In the interval no incident of any note has arisen to vary the monotony
of their lives. One day is just as the other, with little to occupy
them, save the watch by the ravine's head, which needs to be maintained
with vigilance unabated.
But much change has arisen both in their circumstances and appearance.
With provision wellnigh out, they have been for days on less than half
allowance, and famine has set its stamp on their features. Pallid,
hollow cheeks, with eyes sunken in their sockets, are seen all around;
and some of the weaker ones begin to totter in their steps, till the
place more resembles the grounds of an hospital than an encampment of
travellers. They have miscalculated their resources, which gave out
sooner than expected.
In this lamentably forlorn condition they are still uncertain as to the
fate of their messenger, their doubts about his safety increasing every
day--every hour. Not that they suppose him to have fallen into the
hands of the Coyoteros. On the contrary, they are convinced of his
having escaped, else some signs of his capture would have been apparent
in the Indian camp, and none such are observed. But other contingencies
may have arisen: an accident to himself, or his horse, delaying him on
the route, if not stopping him altogether.
Or may it be, as Don Estevan has said, that Colonel Requenes with his
soldiers is absent from Arispe, and there is a difficulty in raising a
force of civilians sufficient for effecting their rescue?
These conjectures, with many others, pass through their minds, producing
a despondency, now at its darkest and deepest. For at first, in their
impatience, blind to probabilities, they fancied theirs a winged
messenger--a Mercury, who should have brought them succour long since.
That bright dream is passed, and the reaction has set in, gloomy as
shadow of death itself.
Nor seems there to be much cheer in the camp of their besiegers. They
can look down upon it from a distance near enough to distinguish the
individual forms of the savages, and note all their actions in the open.
Through the telescope can be read even the expressions on their
features, showing that they, too, have their anxieties and
apprehensions; no doubt from the black horse and his rider having got
away from them.
Their scouts are still observed to come and go. Some are sent
northward, others to the south; the last evidently to look out for the
return of the raiding party gone down the Horcasitas.
Another day passes, and they are seen coming back, at a pace which
betokens their bringing a report of an important nature. That it is a
welcome one to their comrades in the camp can be told by their shouts of
triumph as they approach.
Soon after they upon the _mesa_ are made aware of the cause, by seeing
the red marauders themselves coming on towards the camp, in array very
different from that when leaving it. Instead of only their arms and
light equipments, every man of them is now laden with spoil, every horse
besides his rider carrying a load, either on withers or croup. And they
have other horses with them now--a _caballada_--mules, too, all under
pack and burden.
No, not all. As the long straggling line draws closer to the Cerro,
they on its summit see a number of these animals bearing on their backs
something more than the loot of plundered houses. They see women, most
of them appearing to be young girls.
As they are conducted on to the camp, and inside its enclosure, Don
Estevan, viewing them through his telescope, can trace upon their
persons, as their features, all the signs and lines proclaiming utter
despair: dresses torn, hair hanging dishevelled, and eyes downcast, with
not a ray or spark of hope in them.
Others look through the glass, to be pained by the heart-saddening
spectacle; each of the married ones, as he views it, thinking of his own
wife or daughter, in fear their fate may be the same--a fate too horrid
to be dwelt upon in thought, much less to be talked about.
This day they are not permitted to see more. Twilight is already on,
and night's darkness, almost instantly succeeding, shuts out from their
view everything below.
But if they see not, they can hear. There are continuous noises in the
camp throughout the rest of the night--cries and joyous ejaculations.
The Coyoteros have made a grand _coup_: much plunder acquired, many
prisoners taken, and pale-faced foes slain, almost to a glut of
vengeance. They are greatly jubilant, and yield themselves to a very
paean of rejoicing, their boasts and exulting shouts at intervals
reverberating along the cliffs.
It is another night of carousal with them, as that when they first sate
down to the siege; for among the proceeds of their recent maraud are
several pig-skins of _aguardiente_, and this fiery spirit, freely
distributed, excites them almost to madness.
So loud are their yells, so angrily, vengefully intoned, that they who
listen above begin to fear they may at length become reckless, and,
_coute que coute_, risk the assault so long unattempted. In such
numbers now, feeling their strength, they may hold a little loss light.
Besides, there is still that apprehension from the side of Arispe; it
may further urge them to a desperate deed, which, if not done at once,
must be left undone, and the siege ingloriously abandoned.
These are but the conjectures of the besieged, who, acting upon them,
keep watch throughout the remainder of the night. Never more wakeful,
seemingly, though never less needed; for up till the hour of dawn, no
assailant is seen approaching the gorge, no sound heard of any one
attempting to scale that steep acclivity.
Of those fearing that they will try, Pedro Vicente is not among the
number. Endeavouring to give confidence to his doubting companions, he
says,
"I know the Coyoteros too well to suppose them such fools. Not all the
_aguardiente_ in Sonora will make them mad enough to expose themselves
to our battery of stones. They don't forget our having it here, and
that we're watching their every movement; ready to rain a storm of rocks
on them if they but come under its range. So, _camarados_, keep up
heart and courage! We've nothing more to fear to-day than we had
yesterday. That's hunger, not their spears or scalping-knives."
Fortified by the _gambusino's_ words, they to whom they are addressed
feel their confidence restored--enough to inspire them with further
patience and endurance.