Mr. Fortescue Part 29

"Then it would not be well--for you. But as she has often expressed a wish to see a pale-face with a long beard, I think it will be well; and in any case I answer for your life."

"What security have I for this? How do I know that when I am in your power you will carry out the compact?"

"You have heard the word of Gondocori. See, I will swear it on the emblem you most respect."

And the cacique pressed his lips to the cross which hung from Ignacio's neck. It was a strange act on the part of a wild Indian, and confirmed the suspicion I already entertained, that Condocori was the son of a Christian mother.

"He is a heathen; his oath is worthless; don't trust him, let the girls go," whispered the padre in my ear.

But I had already made up my mind. It was on my conscience to keep faith with the girls; I wanted neither to kill the cacique nor see his men kill the tame Indians, and whatever might befall me "up yonder" I should at any rate get away from San Andrea de Huanaco.

"The die is cast; I will go with you," I said, turning to Gondocori.

"Now, I know, beyond a doubt, that my brother is the bravest of the brave.

He fears not the unknown."

I asked if Gahra might bear me company.

"At his own risk. But I cannot answer for his safety. Mamcuna loves not black people."

This was not very encouraging, and after I had explained the matter to Gahra I strongly advised him to stay where he was. But he said he was my man, that he owed me his liberty, and would go with me to the end, even though it should cost him his life.

CHAPTER XXI.

A FIGHT FOR LIFE.

We have left behind us the _montano_, with its verdant uplands and waving forests, its blooming valleys, flower-strewed savannas, and sunny waters, and are crawling painfully along a ledge, hardly a yard wide, stern gray rocks all round us, a foaming torrent only faintly visible in the prevailing gloom a thousand feet below. Our mules, obtained at the last village in the fertile region, move at the speed of snails, for the path is slippery and insecure, and one false step would mean death for both the rider and the ridden,

Presently the gorge widens into a glen, where forlorn flowers struggle toward the scanty light and stunted trees find a precarious foothold among the rocks and stones. Soon the ravine narrows again, narrows until it becomes a mere cleft; the mule-path goes up and down like some mighty snake, now mounting to a dizzy height, anon descending to the bed of the thundering torrent. The air is dull and sepulchral, an icy wind blows in our faces, and though I am warmly clad, and wrapped besides in a thick _poncho_, I shiver to the bone.

At length we emerge from this valley of the shadow of death, and after crossing an arid yet not quite treeless plain, begin to climb by many zigzags an almost precipitous height. The mules suffer terribly, stopping every few minutes to take breath, and it is with a feeling of intense relief that, after an ascent of two hours, we find ourselves on the _c.u.mbre_, or ridge of the mountain.

For the first time since yesterday we have an un.o.bstructed view. I dismount and look round. Backward stretches an endless expanse of bleak and stormy-swept billowy mountains; before us looms, in serried phalanx, the western Cordillera, dazzling white, all save one black-throated colossus, who vomits skyward thick clouds of ashes and smoke, and down whose ragged flanks course streams of fiery lava.

After watching this stupendous spectacle for a few minutes we go on, and shortly reach another and still loftier _quebrada_. Icicles hang from the rocks, the pools of the streams are frozen; we have reached an alt.i.tude as high as the summit of Mont Blanc, and our distended lips, swollen hands, and throbbing temples show how great is the rarefaction of the air.

None of us suffer so much from the cold as poor Gahra. His ebon skin has turned ashen gray, he shivers continually, can hardly speak, and sits on his mule with difficulty.

The country we are in is uninhabited and the trail we are following known only to a few Indians. I am the first white man, says Gondocori, by whom it has been trodden.

We pa.s.s the night in a ruined building of cyclopean dimensions, erected no doubt in the time of the Incas, either for the accommodation of travellers by whom the road was then frequented or for purposes of defence. But being both roofless, windowless, and fireless, it makes only a poor lodging. The icy wind blows through a hundred crevices; my limbs are frozen stiff, and when morning comes many of us look more dead than alive.

I asked Condocori how the poor girls of San Andrea could possibly have survived so severe a journey.

"The weaker would have died. But I did not expect this cold. The winter is beginning unusually early this year. Had we been a few days later we should not have got through at all, and if it begins to snow it may go ill with us, even yet. But to-morrow the worst will be over."

The cacique had so far behaved very well, treating me as a friend and an equal, and doing all he could for my comfort. His men treated me as a superior. Gondocori said very little about his country, still less about Queen Mamcuna, whom he also called "Great Mother." To my frequent questions on these subjects he made always the same answer: "Patience, you will see."

He did, however, tell me that his people called their country Pachatupec and themselves Pachatupecs, that the Spaniards had never subdued them or even penetrated into the fastnesses where they dwelt, and that they spoke the ancient language of Peru.

Gondocori admitted that his mother was a Christian, and to her he no doubt owed his notions of religion and the regularity of his features. She had been carried off as he meant to carry off the seven maidens of the Happy Valley, for the _misterios_ had a theory that a mixture of white and Indian blood made the finest children and the boldest warriors. But white wives being difficult to obtain, _mestiza_ maidens had generally to be accepted, or rather, taken in their stead.

We rose before daybreak and were in the saddle at dawn. The ground and the streams are hard frozen, and the path is so slippery that the trembling mules dare scarcely put one foot before the other, and our progress is painfully slow. We are in a broad, stone-strewed valley, partly covered with withered puma-gra.s.s, on which a flock of graceful _vicunas_ are quietly grazing, as seemingly unconscious of our presence as the great condors which soar above the snowy peaks that look down on the plain.

As we leave the valley, through a pa.s.s no wider than a gateway, the cacique gives me a word of warning.

"The part we are coming to is the most dangerous of all," he said. "But it is, fortunately, not long. Two hours will bring us to a sheltered valley.

And now leave everything to your mule. If you feel nervous shut your eyes, but as you value your life neither tighten your reins nor try to guide him."

I repeat this caution to Gahra, and ask how he feels.

"Much better, senor; the sunshine has given me new life. I feel equal to anything."

And now we have to travel once more in single file, for the path runs along a mountain spur almost as perpendicular as a wall; we are between two precipices, down which even the boldest cannot look without a shudder.

The incline, moreover, is rapid, and from time to time we come to places where the ridge is so broken and insecure that we have to dismount, let our mules go first, and creep after them on our hands.

At the head of the file is an Indian who rides the _madrina_ (a mare) and acts as guide, next come Gondocori, myself and Gahra, followed by the other mounted Indians, three or four baggage-mules, and two men on foot.

We have been going thus nearly an hour, when a sudden and portentous change sets in. Murky clouds gather round the higher summits and shut out the sun, a thick mist settles down on the ridge, and in a few minutes we are folded in a gloom hardly less dense than midnight darkness.

"Halt!" shouts the guide.

"What shall we do?" I ask the cacique, whom, though he is but two yards from me, I cannot see.

"Nothing. We can only wait here till the mist clears away," he shouts in a m.u.f.fled voice.

"And how soon may that be?"

"_Quien Sabe?_ Perhaps a few minutes, perhaps hours."

Hours! To stand for hours, even for one hour, immovable in that mist on that ridge would be death. Since the sun disappeared the cold had become keener than ever. The blood seems to be freezing in my veins, my beard is a block of ice, icicles are forming on my eyelids.

If this goes on--a gleam of light! Thank Heaven, the mist is lifting, just enough to enable me to see Gondocori and the guide. They are quite white.

It is snowing, yet so softly as not to be felt, and as the fog melts the flakes fall faster.

"Let us go on," says Gondocori. "Better roll down the precipice than be frozen to death. And if we stop here much longer, and the snow continues, the pa.s.s beyond will be blocked, and then we must die of hunger and cold, for there is no going back."

So we move on, slowly and noiselessly, amid the fast-falling snow, like a company of ghosts, every man conscious that his life depends on the sagacity and sure-footedness of his mule. And it is wonderful how wary the creatures are. They literally feel their way, never putting one foot forward until the other is firmly planted. But the snow confuses them.

More than once my mule slips dangerously, and I am debating within myself whether I should not be safer on foot, when I hear a cry in front.

"What is it?" I ask Gondocori, for I cannot see past him.

"The guide is gone. The _madrina_ slipped, and both have rolled down the precipice."