Part 2 (1/2)
These confidences he has imparted to Henry Tresillian, who is to accompany him in the chase, though not from any view of inspiring the latter with its ardour. There is no need; the young Englishman being a hunter by instinct, with a love for natural history as well, and the Lost Mountain promises rich reward for the climbing, in discovery as in sport. Besides, the two have been _compagnons de cha.s.se_ all along the route; habitually together, the fellow-feeling of hunters.h.i.+p making such a.s.sociation congenial. So, early as is the Mexican afoot, he beats the English youth by barely a minute of time; the latter seen issuing forth from one of the tents that form part of the encampment, just as the former has crawled out from between the wheels of a wagon, under which, rolled-up in his _frezada_, he had pa.s.sed the night.
With just enough light to identify him, Henry Tresillian is seen to be habited in shooting coat, breeches, and gaiters, laced buskins, and a tweed cloth cap; in short, the costume of an English sportsman-- shot-belt over the shoulders, and double-barrel in hand--about to attack a pheasant preserve, or go tramping through stubble and swedes. The _gambusino_ himself wears the picturesque dress of his cla.s.s and country; the gun he carries being a rifle, while the sword-like weapon hanging along his hip is the ever-present _machete_--in Sonora sometimes called _cortante_.
As, overnight, the programme had been all arranged, their interchange of speech at present has only reference to something in the way of _desayuna_ before setting out. This they find ready and near; at the central camp fire now blazing up, where several of the women, ”whisks”
in hand, are bending over pots of chocolate, stirring the substantial liquid to a creamy froth.
A _taza_ of it is handed to each of the ”_cazadores_,” with a ”_tortilla enchilada_,” accompanied by a graceful word of welcome. Then, emptying the cups, and chewing up the tough, leatherlike maize cakes, the hunters slip quietly out of camp, and set their faces for the Cerro.
The ascent, commenced almost immediately, is by a ravine--a sort of gorge or chine worn out by the water from the spring-head above and disintegrating rains throughout the long ages. They find it steep as a staircase, though not winding as one; instead, trending straight up from its debouchment on the plain to the summit level, between slopes, these with grim, rocky _facade_, still more precipitous. Down its bottom cascades the stream--a tiny rivulet now, but in rain-storms a torrent-- and along this lies the path, the only one by which the Cerro can be ascended, as the _gambusino_ already knows.
”There's no other,” he says, as they are clambering upward, ”where a man could make the ascent, unless with a Jacob's ladder let down to him.
All around, the cliff is as steep as the shaft of a mine. Even the wild sheep can't scale it, and if we find any on the summit--and it's to be hoped we shall--they must either have been bred there, or gone up this way. _Guarda_!” he adds, in exclamation, as he sees the impulsive English youth bounding on rather recklessly. ”Have a care! Don't disturb the stones; they may go rattling down and smash somebody below.”
”By Jove! I didn't think of that,” returns he thus cautioned, turning pale at thought of how he might have endangered the lives of those dear to him; then ascending more slowly, and with the care enjoined upon him.
In due time they arrive at the head of the gorge, there stopping to take breath. Only for an instant, when they proceed on, now no longer in a climb, the path thence leading over ground level as the plain itself; but still by the rivulet's edge, through a tangle of trees and bushes.
At some two hundred yards from the head of the gorge they come into an opening, the Mexican as he enters it exclaiming:
”_El ojo de agua_!”
CHAPTER FIVE.
LOS GUAJALOTES.
The phrase, ”_ojo de agua_” (the water's eye), is simply the Mexican name for a spring; which Henry Tresillian needs not to be told, being already acquainted with the pretty poetical appellation. And he now sees the thing itself but a few paces ahead, gurgling up in a little circular basin, and sending off the stream which supplies the lake below.
In an instant they are upon its edge, to find it clear as crystal, the _gambusino_ saying, as he unslings his drinking-cup of cow's horn,
”I can't resist taking a swill of it, notwithstanding the gallons I had swallowed overnight. After such a long spell of short-water rations, one feels as though he could never again get enough.” Then filling the horn, and almost instantly emptying it, he concludes with the exclamation ”_Delicioso_!”
His companion drinks also, but from a cup of solid silver; vessels of this metal, even of gold, being aught but rare among the master-miners of Sonora.
They are about to continue on, when lo! a flock of large birds by the edge of the open. On the ground these are--having just come out from among the bushes--moving leisurely along, with beaks now and then lowered to the earth; in short, feeding as turkeys in a pasture field.
And turkeys they are, the Mexican saying in a whisper:
”_Los guajalotes_!”
So like are they to the domestic bird--only better shaped and every way more beautiful--that Henry Tresillian has no difficulty in identifying them as its wild progenitors. One of superior size, an old c.o.c.k, is at their head, striding to and fro in all the pride of his glittering plumage, which, under the beams of the new-risen sun, shows hues vivid and varied as those of the rainbow. A very sultan he seems, followed by a train of sultanas and their attendants; for there are young birds in the flock, fledglings, that differ in appearance from the old ones.
Suddenly the grand satrap erects his head, and with neck craned out, utters a note of alarm. Too late. ”Bang--bang!” from the double-barrel--the sharper crack of the rifle sounding simultaneously-- and the old c.o.c.k, with three of his satellites, lies prostrate upon the earth, the rest taking flight with terrified screeches, and a clatter of wings loud as the ”whirr” of a thres.h.i.+ng machine.
”Not a bad beginning,” quietly observes the _gambusino_, as they stand over the fallen game. ”Is it, senorito?”
”Anything but that,” answers the young Englishman, delighted at having secured such a good bottom for their bag. ”But what are we to do with them? We can't carry them along.”
”Certainly not,” rejoins the Mexican. ”Nor need. Let them lie where they are till we come back. But no,” he adds, correcting himself.
”That will never do. There are wolves up here, no doubt--certainly coyotes, if no other kind--and on return we might find only feathers.