To all appearance Fernand's fireworks are about to bear fruit, this
likely to be bitter. As the sky, darker after the lightning's flash, a
cloud is collecting over the new settlement, which threatens to sweep
down upon it in a rain storm of ruin. What but they could have caused
this cloud; or, at all events, given a cue for the time of its bursting.
It appears in the shape of a cohort of dusky horsemen, painted and
plumed. No need to say, they are the same that were seen by Hawkins and
Tucker.
Having crossed the river at its lower ford, where so far the hunters saw
their tracks, there losing them, the savages continued on. Not by the
main road leading to the mission, but along a path which deflects from
it soon after leaving the river's bank. A narrower trace, indeed the
continuation of that they had been following all along--the transverse
route across the bottom-land from bluff to bluff, on both sides
ascending to the steppe.
But though they came down on one side, they went not up on the other.
Instead, having reached the nether bluff, they turned sharp along its
base, by another and still narrower trace, which they knew would take
them up to the mission-building. A route tortuous, the path beset with
many obstacles; hence their having spent several hours in passing from
the ford to the mission-house, though the distance between is barely ten
miles.
No doubt they have good reason for submitting to the irksome delay
caused by the difficult track, as also for the cautious manner in which
they have been coming along it. Otherwise, they would certainly have
chosen the direct road running nearer the river's bank.
While Colonel Armstrong, and his friends, are enjoying themselves in the
refectory of the ancient mission-house, in the midst of their laughing
hilarity, the painted cavaliers have been making approach, and are now
halted, within less than half-a-mile from its walls. In such fashion as
shows, they do not intend a long stay in their stopping place. Not a
saddle is removed, or girth untightened; while the bridles, remaining on
their horses' heads, are but used as halters to attach them to the
trees.
The men have dismounted, but not to form camp, or make bivouac. They
kindle no fires, nor seem caring to cook, or eat. They drink, however;
several of them taking flasks from their saddle pouches, and holding
them to their heads bottom upward. Nothing strange in this. The Texan
Indian, whether Comanche, Kiowa, or Lipan, likes his fire-water as much
as a white man, and as constantly carries it along with him. The only
peculiarity about these is that, while quaffing, they do not talk in the
Indian tongue, but English of the Texan idiom, with all its wild
swearing!
The place where they have halted is a bit of glade-ground, nearly
circular in shape, only half-encompassed by timber, the other half being
an embayment of the bluffs, twin to those on the opposite side of the
river bottom. It is shaded three-quarters across by the cliff, the moon
being behind this. The other quarter, on the side of the trees, is
brilliantly lit up by her beams, showing the timber thick and close
along its edge, to all appearance impassable as the _facade_ of rugged
rock frowning from the opposite concave of the enclosed circle.
Communicating with this are but two paths possible for man or horse, and
for either only in single file. One enters the glade coming up the
river bottom along the base of the bluff; the other debouches at the
opposite end, still following the cliff's foot. By the former the
Indians have entered; but by the latter it is evident they intend going
out, as their eyes are from time to time turned towards it, and their
gestures directed that way. Still they make no movement for resuming
their march, but stand in gathered groups, one central and larger than
the rest. In its midst is a man by nearly the head taller than those
around him: their chief to a certainty. His authority seems
acknowledged by all who address him, if not with deference, in tone and
speech telling they but wait for his commands, and are willing to obey
them. He, himself, appears waiting for something, or somebody else,
before he can issue them, his glance continually turning towards the
point where the path leads out upwards.
Impatiently, too, as ever and anon he pulls out a watch and consults it
as, to the time. Odd to see a savage so engaged; above all possessed of
a repeater! Still the Indians of to-day are different from those of
days past, and have learnt many of the white man's ways--even to wearing
watches. The man in question seems to know all about it; and has his
reasons for being particular as to the hour. He is evidently acting
upon a preconcerted plan, with the time fixed and fore-arranged. And
evident also that ten is the hour awaited; for, while in the act of
examining his dial, the old mission clock, restored to striking, tolls
just so many times; and, before the boom of its cracked bell has ceased
rolling in broken reverberation through the trees, he thrusts the watch
hurriedly into his fob. Then stands in expectant attitude, with eyes
upon the embouchure of the upper path, scanning it more eagerly than
ever. There is a strange coincidence between the strokes of the clock
and the flashes of Fernanda powder--both numbering the same. Though not
strange to the leader of the savage troop. He knows what it is--
comprehends the significance of the signal--for signal it has been. A
dread one, too, foreboding danger to innocent people. One who could
behold this savage band, scrutinise the faces of those composing it,
witness the fierce wicked flashes from their eyes, just as the clock is
striking, would send up a prayer for the safety of Colonel Armstrong and
his colonists.
If further informed as to who the savages are, the prayer would sure be
succeeded by the reflection--"Heaven help his daughters! If God guard
not, a fearful fate will be theirs--a destiny worse than death!"