The Lost Mountain: A Tale of Sonora. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ the north-east – a long way off.”

      “But if it was a smoke, what would that signify?”

      “In this part of the world, much. It might mean danger; ay, death.”

      “You astonish – mystify me, Señor Vicente. How could it mean that?”

      “There’s no mystery in it, muchacho. Where smoke is seen there should be fire; and a fire on these llanos is likely to be one with Indians around it. Now do you understand the danger I’m thinking of?”

      “I do. But I thought there were no Indians in this part of the country, except the Opatas; and they are Christianised, dwelling in towns.”

      “True, all that. But the Opata towns are far from here, and in an entirely different direction – the very opposite. If smoke it was, the fire that made it wasn’t one kindled by Opatas, but men who only resemble them in the colour of their skin – Indians, too.”

      “What Indians do you suspect?”

      “Los Apaches.”

      “Danger indeed, if they be in the neighbourhood.” The young Englishman has been long enough in Sonora to have acquaintance with the character of these cruel savages. “But I hope they’re not,” he adds, trustfully, still with some apprehension, as his thoughts turn to those below.

      “That hope I heartily echo,” rejoins the Mexican, “for if they be about, we’ve got to look out for the skin of our heads. But come, muchacho mio! Don’t let us be down in the mouth till we’re sure there is a danger. As I’ve said, I’m not even sure of having seen smoke at all. It might have been a dust-whirl, just as I noticed the thing, the estampeda commenced; and after it the rush for water, which of course took off my attention. When that was over, and I again turned my eyes north-eastward, it was too dark to distinguish smoke or anything else. I then looked for a light all along the sky-line, and also several times during the night – luckily to see none. For all I can’t help having fears. A man who’s once been prisoner to the Apaches never travels through a district where they are like to be encountered without some apprehension. Mine ought to be of the keenest. I’ve not only been their prisoner, but rather roughly handled, as no doubt you’ll admit after looking at this.”

      Saying which, the Mexican opens his shirt-front, laying bare his breast; on which appears a disc, bearing rude resemblance to a “death’s head,” burnt deep into the skin.

      “They gave me that brand,” he continues, “just by way of amusing themselves. They meant to have further diversion out of it by using me as a target, and it for a centre mark at one of their shooting matches. Luckily, before that came off, I found the chance of giving them leg-bail. Now, muchacho, you’ll better understand my anxiety to be up here so early, and why I want to push on to the other end. Vamonos!”

      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 passage 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, pronounces 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 chasse 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 encumber 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, señorito! 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 СКАЧАТЬ