The Lost Mountain Part 3

Shouldering their guns, they proceed onward; now at slower pace, their progress obstructed by thick-growing bushes and trees, with _llianas_ interlacing. For beyond the spring there is neither stream nor path, save here and there a slight trace, often tortuous, which tells of the pa.s.sage of wild animals wandering to and fro. The hunters are pleased to see it thus; still more when the Mexican, noting some hoof-marks in a spot of soft ground, p.r.o.nounces them tracks of the _carnero cimmaron_.

"I thought we'd find some of the bighorn gentry up here," he says; "and if all the caravan don't this day dine on roast mutton, it'll be because Pedro Vicente isn't the proper man to be its purveyor. Still, we mustn't stop to go after the sheep now. True, we've begun the day hunting, but before proceeding farther with that, we must make sure we shan't have to end it fighting. Ssh!"

The sibillatory exclamation has reference to a noise heard a little way off, like the stroke of a hoof upon hard turf, several times rapidly repeated. And simultaneous with it another sound, as the snort or bark of some animal.

"That's a _carnero_, now!" says the Mexican, _sotto voce_; as he speaks, coming to a stop and laying hold of the other's arm to restrain him.

"Since the game offers itself without going after, or out of our way, we may as well secure a head or two. Like the turkeys, it can be strung up till our return."

Of course his _compagnon de cha.s.se_ is of the same mind. He but longs to empty his double-barrel again, all the more at such grand game, and rejoins, saying, "Just so; it can."

Without further speech they stalk cautiously forward, to reach the edge of another opening, and there behold another flock--not of birds, but quadrupeds. Deer they might seem at the first glance, to eyes unacquainted with them; and for such Henry Tresillian might mistake them, but that they show no antlers; instead, horns of a character proclaiming them sheep.

Sheep they are, wild ones, different from the domesticated animal as greyhound from dachshund. No short legs nor low bodies theirs; no bushy tails, nor tangle of wool to enc.u.mber them. Instead, coats clean and smooth, with limbs long, sinewy, and supple as those of stag itself.

Several pairs of horns are visible in the flock, one pair spirally curving much larger than any of the others; indeed, of such dimensions, and seeming weight, as to make it a wonder how the old ram, their owner, can hold up his head. Yet is it he who is holding head highest; the same who had snorted, hammering the ground with his hoof.

He has done so, repeatedly, since; the last time to be the last in his life. Through the leafy branches, cautiously parted, shoots out a double jet of flame and smoke; three cracks are heard; then again there is dead game on the ground.

This time, however, counting less in heads; only one--that carrying the grand curvature of horns. Alone the leader of the flock has fallen to the second fusillade, killed by the rifle's bullet. For the shot from the double-barrel, though hitting too, has glanced off the thick felt-like coats of the _carneros_ as from a corslet of steel.

"_Carrai_!" exclaims the _gambusino_, with a vexed air, as they step up to the fallen quarry. "This time we haven't done so well--in fact, worse than nothing."

"But why?" queries the young Englishman, in wonder at the other's strange words and ways, after having made such a big kill.

"Why, you ask, senorito! Don't your nostrils tell you? _Mil diablos_!

how the brute stinks!"

Truth he speaks, as his hunting companion, now standing over the dead body of the bighorn, can well perceive--sensible of an offensive odour arising from it as that of ram in the rutting season.

"What a fool I've been to spend bullet upon him!" continues the Mexican, without awaiting rejoinder. "Nor was it his great bulk or horns that tempted me. No; all through thinking of that other thing, which made me careless which of them I aimed at."

"What other thing?"

"The smoke. Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk nor any to bother more about the brute. It's only fit food for coyotes; and the sooner they get it into their bellies the better. Faugh! Let us away from it."

CHAPTER SIX.

A HOMERIC REPAST.

Early as are the white men astir, yet earlier are the red ones. For the Coyoteros, like the animal from which they derive their tribal name, do more of their prowling by night than by day. Moreover, it is the sultry season, and they design reaching Nauchampa-tepetl before the sun gets so high and hot as to make travelling uncomfortable. Even savages are not averse to comfort; though these are now thinking more about that of their horses than their own. They are on an expedition that will need keeping the animals up to their best strength; and journeying in the noon hours would distress and pull them down.

So nearly an hour before dawn declines itself they are up and active, moving about in the dim light, silent as spectres. Silent, not from any fear of betraying their presence to an enemy--they know of none likely to be near--but because it is their habit.

What they first do is to shift the picket-pins of their horses, or give greater length to the trail-ropes, in order that the animals may get a bite of clean fresh gra.s.s, that on which they were tethered throughout the night being now trampled down.

Next, they proceed to take care of themselves--to fortify the inner man with a bit of breakfast. No fire is needed for the cooking it, and none is kindled. The _mezcal_ and horse-meat pie has been baking all the night; and now, near morning, they know it will be ready--done to a turn. It but needs the turf lifted off their primitive oven, and the contents extracted.

Five or six, detailed for the task, at once set about it; first taking off the top sods, now calcined and still smoking. Then the loose mould, which the fire has converted into ashes, is removed with more care. It is hot, and needs handling gingerly; but the savage _cuisiniers_ know how, and soon the black bundle is exposed to view, the hide now hairless and charred, but moist and reeking. It still adheres sufficiently to bear hoisting out, without fear of spilling the contents; and at length it is so lifted and carried to a clean spot of sward. Then cut open and spread out, there is displayed a steaming savoury ma.s.s, whose appetising odour, borne upward and outward on the fresh morning air, inspires every redskin around with delightful antic.i.p.ations.

And not without reason either. To say nothing of the baked horseflesh-- by many _gourmets_ esteemed a delectable dish--the corn of the _mezcal_, treated thus, is a viand palatable as peculiar. And peculiar it is, bearing resemblance to nothing I either know or can think of. In appearance it is much like candied citron, with a sweetish taste too, only firmer and darker in colour. But while eating it the tongue seems penetrated with a thousand tiny darts; a sort of prinkling sensation, quite indescribable, and, to one unaccustomed to it, not altogether agreeable. In time this pa.s.ses away; and he who has made the experiment of eating _mezcal_ comes to like it exceedingly. Many grand people among the whites regard it in the light of a luxury; and as such it has found its way into most Mexican towns--even the capital itself--where it commands a high price.

With the Apache Indians, as already said, it is a staple food, even giving their tribal name to one branch of this numerous nation--the Mezcaleros. But all eat of it alike, and the Coyoteros, _en bivouac_, show, by their knowledge of how to prepare it, that baked _mezcal_ is noways new to them.

At the word "ready!" they gather around the hot steaming ma.s.s; and, regardless of scorched lips or tongues, set upon it with knife and tooth.

Soon the skin is cleaned out, every sc.r.a.p of its contents eaten. They could eat the hide too, and would, were there a pinch. But there is none such now, and it is left for their namesakes, the coyotes.

A smoke follows the Homeric repast, for all American Indians are addicted to the use of the nicotian weed. They were so before the caravels of Columbus spread sail on the Haytian seas.

Every Coyotero in camp has his pipe and pouch of tobacco, be it genuine or adulterated; this depending on how their luck has been running, or how recent their latest raid upon some settlement of the palefaces.

Pipes smoked out and returned to their places of deposit, all are afoot again. Nothing more now but to draw picket-pins, coil up trail-ropes, mount, and move off; for their horse caparison, scant and easily adjusted, is already on.

The chief gives the order "to horse," not in words, but by example-- springing upon the back of his own. Then they ride off, as before, in formation "by twos," each file falling into rank as the line lengthens out upon the plain.

Scarce is the last file clear of the abandoned camp-ground ere this becomes occupied by animated beings of another kind--wolves, whose howling has been heard throughout all the night. Having scented the slaughtered horse, these now rush simultaneously towards it, to dispute the banquet of bones.

Shortly after leaving the camp the marching redskins lose sight of the Cerro. This is accounted for by a dip in the plain, with a ridgelike swell beyond, which runs transversely to their course. The hollow continues for several miles before the mountain will be again in view; but, well knowing the way, they need not this to guide them. Nor are they in any particular hurry. They can reach their intended halting-place by the lake long ere the sun becomes sultry, there to lie up till the cool hours of evening. So they move leisurely along, and with a purpose--to spare the sinews of their horses.

They talk enough now, loudly and laughingly. They have slept well, and breakfasted satisfactorily; besides, it is broad daylight, and no danger to be apprehended, no fear of hostile surprise. For all that they keep their eyes on the alert through habitude, every now and then scanning the horizon around.

Soon they see that which gives them something serious to speak about.

Not upon the horizon, nor anywhere upon the plain, but up in the heavens above it--birds. What of them? And what in their appearance to attract the attention of the Coyoteros? Nothing, or not much, were the birds other than they are. But they are vultures, black vultures of two sorts--_gallinazos_ and _zopilotes_. Nor would the Indians think of giving them a second glance were they soaring about in their ordinary way, wheeling in circles and spirals. But they are not; instead, pa.s.sing overhead in straight onward flight, with a quick, earnest plying of wings, evidently making for some point where they expect to stoop upon carrion. Scores there are of them, straggled out in a long stream, but all flying in one direction--the same in which the savages are themselves proceeding--towards Nauchampa-tepetl.

What can be drawing the vultures thither? This the question which the Indians ask one another, in their own formularies of speech; none able to answer it, save by conjecture. Without in any way alarming, the spectacle excites them; and they quicken their pace, eager to learn what is attracting the birds. It should be something more than dead antelope or deer, so many are tending towards it, and from so far. For their high flight, straight onward, tells of their having been for some time keeping the same course.

Hastening on up the slope of the swell, the dusky hors.e.m.e.n once more catch sight of the mountain, there to see what brings them to an abrupt halt--a filmy purplish haze hanging over its southern end, more scattered higher up in the sky. Is it fog rising from the water they know to be there? No: smoke, as their practised eyes tell them after regarding it a moment. And with like celerity they interpret it, as proceeding from the fire, or fires, of a camp. Other travellers, antic.i.p.ating them, are encamped by Nauchampa-tepetl,

Who? Opatas? Not likely. Sons of toil--_Indicos mansos_--slaves, as these the _bravos_, their kindred only in race, scornfully call them-- the Opatas keep to their towns, and the patches of cultivation around them. Improbable that they should have ventured into that wilderness so far from home. More likely it is a party of palefaces; men in search of that shining metal which, as the Apaches know, has often lured their white enemies into the very heart of the desert, their own domain, and to destruction--themselves the destroyers. If the smoke of those camp fires they now see be over such a party, then is it doomed--at least so mentally resolve the red centaurs, hoping it may be thus.

While still gazing at the blue cloud, taking its measure, and discussing the probabilities of who and what sort of men may be under it, another appears before their eyes; this whiter and of smaller size--a mere puff suddenly rising over the crest of the _mesa_, and separating from it as it drifts higher.

From the fire of a gun, or guns, as the Coyoteros can tell, though not by any crack of one having reached their ears, since none has. In the rarefied atmosphere of the high-lying _llanos_ the eye has the advantage of the ear, sounds being heard only at short distance. They are still more than ten miles from the mountain, and the report of a cannon, discharged on its summit, would be barely audible to them.

Still staying at halt, but keeping to their horses, the chief and others in authority enter into consultation. And while they are deliberating on the best course to be pursued, still another puff of smoke shoots up over the _mesa_, similar to that preceding, but at a different point.

It aids them in coming to conclusions; for now they are sure there is a camp of palefaces by the pond; and they above are hunters who have gone up to get game, which the Indians know to be there in abundance.

But what sort of palefaces? Of this they are not sure. Knowing it to be a miners' camp, they would ride straight on for it, in gallop. But it may be an encampment of _soldados_, which would make a difference.

Not that the Coyoteros are afraid to encounter Mexican soldiers--far from it. Rather would they rejoice at finding it these. For their tribe, their own branch of it, has an old score against the men in uniform; and nothing would please them better than an opportunity to settle it. Indeed, partly to seek this, with purposes of plunder combined, are they now on the _war-trail_. Only in their mode of action would there be a difference, in the event of the encampment turning out to be occupied by _soldados_. Soldiers in that quarter should be cavalry, and to approach them caution would be called for, with strategy. But these red centaurs are soldiers themselves--veterans, skilled, cunning strategists--and now give proof of it. For the time has come for them to advance; which they do, not straight forward nor in single body, but broken into two bands, one facing right, the other left, with a design to enfilade the camp by approaching it from opposite points. Separating at the start, the two cohorts soon diverge wide apart, both making for the mountain, but with the intention to reach its southern end on different sides.

If the black vultures, still in streaming flight above, have hopes of getting a repast there, they may now feel a.s.sured of its being a plenteous one.

CHAPTER SEVEN.