The Crimson Conquest 29

The Crimson Conquest 29

"Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed, "I can go no farther! Leave me

and save yourself. Alone, you can escape, but I can only be a fatal

hindrance. Go, I pray you!"

 

The cavalier would have been less disturbed had a dozen soldiers sprung

up before him, and would have known better what to do. "Oh, Holy

Mother!" he groaned to himself, "look upon a helpless sinner and aid him

now! A weeping girl in the middle of a heathen cornfield in the middle

of a heathen rainy night, and not another woman within a league to run

for!" He contemplated the dim, quivering form with an embarrassment

exceeded only by his compassion.

 

"Go, Viracocha!" she urged, with a moan whose piteousness brought him to

his senses.

 

"Why, God help me, child!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "I would as

quickly think of leaving thee as of pulling the nose of the Pope! Come,

now, _chiquita mia_, do not weep! Thou ’rt weary, I know—and cold.

Well, I’ll tell thee—we must be moving, thou knowest—and I’ll carry thee

for a space. Presently thou’lt be rested, then we’ll walk again. Hush,

now, little one!"

 

Without heeding her protests he lifted her and strode on with her in his

arms. For some distance the girl wept quietly on his shoulder while he

strove to soothe. The good Cristoval was as fatherly as if she had been

his own, and before long her tears had subsided. But he was less

cheerful than his words were cheering. There was importunate need of

speed, and speed was impossible.

 

They kept on to the southward until an hour before the dawn. Their

halts were infrequent now, but often the cavalier took his ward into his

arms and carried her until she was able to struggle along beside him,

half supported. At last they turned to the west, and within an hour were

on the great road, going toward Guamachucho. They pushed on more

rapidly and in silence, Cristoval preoccupied with the immediate future.

He was debating, in the main, the policy of at once making themselves

and the situation known to the natives of the valley, to secure their

aid. He finally decided against it. He had no doubt of their

willingness and loyalty, but danger lay in the nearness of Caxamalca. A

suspicion on the part of the Spaniards that these people had knowledge

of the fugitives would be warrant for an effort to extort it, and

Cristoval was too well acquainted with Spanish methods to feel sure that

the effort would be unsuccessful. Pizarro would not hesitate at any

cruelty to gain the information, and the safest plan would be to leave

no traces. Before twenty-four hours he had reason to be thankful for

that decision.

 

The morning was now so near that the highway was no longer safe, and he

had resolved to gain the foothills, when he became aware of a small

group of buildings. The principal one, he observed, was a small _tambo_

for herdsmen. They passed it cautiously, and were again in the open,

unconscious of having been seen by an early riser. The man, a Spaniard,

peered through the darkness at their shadowy forms, stood listening for

a moment, then stepped after them on tiptoe. Shortly he paused and

hearkened again. The sound of their steps ceased as they left the

roadway, and with a grunt and grin he returned to the _tambo_.

 

Here several comrades were moving about, and he told his tale, remarking

that the pair had left the road for the fields. His account brought

slight comment, and he dropped the matter until, later in the morning,

he found an audience with a pronounced interest in his observations, the

significance of which his absence from Caxamalca for a few days had made

him unable to measure. He was informed by the first search party met

coming from the town, and the squad left him at a gallop.

 

By the first gray of daybreak the fugitives had gained the crest of a

range of foothills. The ridge stretched away to the south with many a

rise and dip, finally dropping into a distant valley. In front, almost

at their feet, but with two or three smaller ranges between, lay the

plain of Caxamalca, half veiled by the morning mist and nearly a

thousand feet below. Just over the farthest of the foothills they could

descry the road with its fringe of trees, and the group of flat-looking

buildings of the _tambo_. Nearer was a cottage and garden, close to

their path into the hills, but which they had not seen. To the west was

a ridge higher than theirs, backed by the gray silhouette of the

Cordillera. They saw in the fair valley nothing of hostility, to be

revealed perhaps at any moment, and strained their eyes to the northward

for signs of pursuit. The only life, however, was in a few specks of

figures moving about the _tambo_, the cottager already at work in his

garden, and a solitary wayfarer on the road to Caxamalca.

 

The cavalier turned away satisfied from his scrutiny, and spread his

cloak at the foot of an outcropping rock. Soon they were busy with a

frugal breakfast, Cristoval eating sparingly, talking little, and

keeping a vigilant eye on the valley. Rava, too weary to talk, was

quite ready to stretch herself upon his cloak under the sheltering

ledge. He wrapped her well in its folds, and had hardly turned away

before she was sleeping.

 

How long she slept she could not have said, but it seemed only a moment

before she was roused by Cristoval’s touch. She looked up with

bewildered eyes. "What is it, Viracocha Cristoval? Oh, where am I? I

dreamed—but, are we pursued?" Terrified by his __EXPRESSION__, her voice

sank into a whisper.

 

"We must go," he replied, giving her his hand. She rose painfully, and

he drew her back from the crest of the hill. A misty rain was falling,

obscuring all but the fields immediately below. As she looked, she

gasped and clutched his arm. Towering before her, seemingly but a few

yards away, was a white, curling column of smoke, writhing heavily as it

rose, and drifting off down the valley.

 

"Oh, what is that, Viracocha?" she cried, cowering at his side. "What

is it—what is it?"

 

"Nothing to fear," said Cristoval, drawing her farther away. "The

cottage hath been fired. They have found our trail, Heaven only knoweth

how!"

 

Cristoval threw her cloak around her, secured his own, and hurried her

away. The thatch of the cottage was blazing fiercely. Outside of the

garden wall stood a group of horses, and trotting in the direction of

the hills, a squad of three troopers, one of them in the lead, bending

over his saddle-bow in scrutiny of the ground.

 

Cristoval had seen the cavalcade nearly an hour before; saw them halt at

the _tambo_, leave the road, gallop to the cottage, and surround it.

Not long afterward it burst into flames, and he had little doubt that

the unfortunate native, and perhaps his family, were being put to

torture. He watched until the three troopers left the others and started

toward the hills. Then he had awakened Rava.

 

As they left the spot she was weeping and frantically wringing her

hands. "Oh, Viracocha Cristoval," she sobbed; "are they burning and

killing because of our flight? Let me go back! Oh, let me go back! My

return may stay their cruelty."

 

"No, no!" he replied, quickly. "They are not killing, and now that they

have found our traces they will probably burn no more. Your return

would not help, Ñusta Rava. Compose yourself, I pray you."

 

"Ah, my poor people!" she wailed. "My unhappy country! The Sun hath

indeed turned away his face! Ah me, ah me!"

 

Cristoval crossed himself at the mention of her pagan deity, and

whispered a prayer for her soul. She turned to him earnestly.

 

"Viracocha, we will not seek aid until beyond the reach of those cruel

men. We must endanger none of my father’s children. We will flee

alone—die alone, if need be."

 

Cristoval nodded assent, but thought of Pedro’s pouch, which was none

too heavy. How to replenish it without the help of men would be a

question. "By the saints!" he thought; "this lady’s escape is attended

by difficulties, and now she setteth up problems of generalship that are

unfamiliar. Ah, well, we’ll see what can be done." Then he said aloud,

"We will consider it later, Ñusta Rava. For the present, it is better

not to talk, for breath may grow precious later on."

 

They pressed forward. The cottage was smouldering now, and left by the

soldiery, who had apparently gone into the lower hills, for none was in

sight. The top of the ridge was fairly smooth, though occasionally

strewn with rock; but toward midday it developed into a succession of

deep gullies, and their progress became labored, with halts of growing

frequency. Before the afternoon was half gone Rava showed serious

exhaustion, and they stopped in a thicket. Cristoval again spread his

cloak, and once more she slept. In an hour he regretfully awakened her,

and they took up their march. The sky was clearing, and presently

Cristoval saw the expected. Far to the eastward, creeping over the

first foothills, was a small, dark column of horsemen, sparkling here

and there as the afternoon sun struck upon burnished helm and corselet,

and deploying at last into a widely-extended line. Another column was

moving to the southward along the highway, almost imperceptibly, as it

appeared to Rava, but in reality at a gallop, as Cristoval knew. He

watched for a time without comment, then led on. When darkness fell

they rested again; then up with the rising moon and wearily onward.

 

The night was far spent when they were brought to a halt at the verge of

a cliff, and looked into a valley half a league in breadth, roughly

semicircular, and opening to the east. Its floor held many a hillock

and hollow, and here and there the white walls of a cottage glimmered in

the moonlight. At the foot of the declivity flowed a stream, showing

silvery where it rippled past a shoal, black in the quiet pools, finally

losing itself in the distant plain to which the vale descended. To the

west the hills closed in gradually, forming the head of the amphitheatre

and softening into the semiluminous mist which filled a great rift in

the wall of the Cordillera looming beyond. Through this dim moonlit

canyon the stream found its way into the valley from the fastnesses of

its source.

 

The dale was one of those rare spots of the arid Sierra made fertile by

an ample supply of water, and every available foot, as Cristoval could

see, was under cultivation. From the edge of the cliff the long sinuous

lines of terraces on the opposite hills were distinctly visible in the