The Crimson Conquest 30

The Crimson Conquest 30

They stood for several minutes, Rava gazing longingly upon the peaceful

cottages of her people, their shelter so near, yet denied. Cristoval,

strongly tempted to take the risk of entrusting themselves to some of

the denizens, was about to make the suggestion when both were startled

by the neighing of a horse. It came, apparently, from a point just

below, and was answered immediately by another, more remote. Rava

clutched his arm with a quick catching of breath.

 

"_Santa Maria!_" interjected he, in an undertone. "So they are here

before us!" His faint hope of aid was dashed. While Rava clung,

trembling, to his arm, he debated. The plain was occupied. To cross it

in this brilliant moonlight would be fatal. Even the hills were no

longer safe; parties would be scouring them with the earliest dawn, and

in their last march darkness had made it impossible not to leave traces.

Cristoval glanced at the dark eyes turned anxiously to his.

 

"There is but one thing left for us to do, Ñusta Rava. We must trust

ourselves to yonder mountains."

 

"Oh, my good friend," she whispered, in terror; "in those mountains we

are lost! We shall starve—go mad! They are most dreadful. You know

not, Viracocha."

 

"Less to be dreaded than the wolves around us," he replied, sombrely.

"There is naught else. We can hide there until the hunt is given over.

How is your strength. Are you very tired?"

 

"I can go," she said, with a brave effort to conceal the tremor in her

voice.

 

"Then come. If need be, I can carry you; but we must make speed."

 

They followed the encircling hills, and descried presently the

smouldering fire of a bivouac, far out in the valley. An hour late,

nearing the mouth of the canyon, they found new danger. It was

picketed. Fortunately they were warned by the live embers of the

campfire left by an indiscretion for which Cristoval returned fervent

thanks, and they passed by a detour well up the mountainside. Safely

beyond, they crept down to the bank of the torrent foaming noisily

through the gulch, and while Rava waited Cristoval went on his knees in

search of the trail which he knew instinctively would be there. He

found it presently, a mere trace left by herdsmen in years of going and

coming to and from the mountain pastures, and to be followed with

difficulty in the shadow of the canyon. It was rough, and grew rougher

as they proceeded, but in its rockiness lay safety, for it held no

tell-tale tracks. They stumbled on in fevered haste, Rava heedless of

weariness and the bruising stones alike. Cristoval gave what aid he

could, supporting her weight when possible, guiding her steps among the

bowlders, and she struggled on without complaint.

 

Momentarily the stream grew wilder, plunging and tearing over the rocks

and filling the canyon with its roar. Now they blundered along its

brink, now toiled up a steep ascent to pass a spur, then down, slipping,

floundering, and lacerating their hands on the thorny bushes clutched to

save a fatal pitch headlong into the howling waters below. The pace

could not endure. Again and again Rava fell, to be raised gently by the

cavalier and carried in his arms until he staggered,—but on and on,

though he groaned at the torture she endured at every step.

 

Morning came, and revealed such a scene of savage grandeur as he had

never before beheld. They were well within the mountains. On either

hand they rose in ragged slope or dizzy precipice, buttressed,

pinnacled, piled crag upon crag until their heights pierced the heavens.

In front loomed greater steeps, with gloomy malevolence in every seam

and scar. Around them, a madness of shattered rock, strewn and riven as

if hurled down by an angry god. Over these raged and thundered the

stream, here a white, leaping cataract, there a black, whirling pool,

and sinister everywhere.

 

They labored onward, in their stupendous surroundings mere pygmies on a

threadlike trail, bending beneath exhaustion as if crushed by the enmity

of the wilderness. Often, turning to lift the half-fainting girl,

Cristoval found the tears streaming over her pallid cheeks, and at last

he saw her sandals were stained with blood. In his arms she clung in

the complete abandonment of weariness, and when he was compelled to

lower her to her feet she reeled, too benumbed to follow. But he

pressed forward, relentless under the driving necessity, though with

aching heart for every evidence of her suffering. No halt possible now,

for day had come, and he knew they would be followed. At the first light

he scrutinized the trail in the hope of finding marks of horses’ hoofs

in indication that the canyon had been explored the day before. The

signs were absent, and he knew the hunt would soon be upon them. From

time to time he left Rava to rest while he clambered up the

mountain-side for a cautious look back down the valley, returning to

rouse and gently urge her forward. Frequently she pleaded, begging to

be left to die; but his face was stern, and his words, though kindly,

grew peremptory in answer to her tears. More often he took her in his

arms and strode on without a word.

 

Thus through hours which seemed to Rava to be life-long; over a path of

eternal length; driven by a being who at one moment was a monster of

cruelty, urging her on to endless torture, at the next, a spirit of

benevolence, on whose shoulder she wept her anguish. And the poor

cavalier, wrung by every fresh pang he forced her to undergo, cruciated

even by his conscience for bringing such torment upon her, could only

toil onward, reeling with fatigue and harrowed by uncertainty while he

muttered incoherencies vainly meant to cheer.

 

At last, having left her beside the path, a mere bedraggled, almost

inanimate heap, he returned from a reconnaissance in mad haste.

 

"Quick!" he whispered, as he bent to raise her from the ground. "Up—up!

They are upon us! We must hide—God knoweth where!"

 

His urgency gave her life, and she staggered to her feet, clinging to

him and looking back in terror. A few paces forward, her pain

forgotten; then down toward the stream, from rock to rock, to a bowlder

behind which they crouched at the edge of a pool. He pressed her down

and knelt, his hand one of iron upon her arm.

 

It seemed an hour before her ears caught the sound of hoofs, and she

closed her eyes. They neared slowly, until she heard the subdued voices

of the riders. They halted a moment, scanning the mountain-sides, and

moved on. They were opposite the bowlder, so close that she could hear

the creaking saddles; an age in passing; finally past. Cristoval relaxed

his grip upon her arm, and she heard his deep-drawn breath. He half

arose and looked warily after them. A gallant party, surely, with the

sunlight glancing from their steel, but Cristoval whispered a fervent

curse upon them as they wound along the trail—upon each by name, for

they were near enough for easy recognition. They rode slowly, searching

the sides of the defile with careful scrutiny; halted at a point a

hundred yards up the canyon, and dismounted to lead their horses, over

the narrow path where an outcropping ledge crowded toward a dangerous

slope, falling away abruptly to the stream twenty feet below. Beyond

this they mounted again and shortly disappeared beyond a jutting crag.

 

Cristoval turned to Rava. She was crouched with half-closed eyes, her

hands tight-pressed upon her bosom. Startled by her pallor and the drawn

lines about her mouth, he hastily opened the pouch and drew forth the

flask of _chicha_. "Here!" he whispered, unstopping it and pressing it

to her lips. "Swallow this. It will help thy strength. They have

gone.—Rava! Dost hear? Swallow!"

 

She obeyed mechanically. He bathed her forehead with the icy water, and

presently she revived.

 

"Ah! _Gracias á Dios_!" he murmured, as she opened her eyes. "Thou’rt

better? Another sip, and thou’lt be thyself. They have gone, but we

must find better shelter before they return.—Poor little one, thou ’rt

worn to death—and, _Madre_!—thy feet! Oh, _miserere Domine_!"

 

He looked cautiously about. Beyond was a larger bowlder, rising almost

from the water’s edge, a few small bushes growing near. It would afford

better hiding—the only one as far as he could see. He bore her thither.

Seating her against the rock with his folded cloak for cushion, he

hastened to unlace her sandals and bathe and bandage her cuts. Her head

was drooping, and he quickly cleared the narrow strip of sand, and eased

her upon it. She was sleeping heavily almost before he had drawn her

cloak around her.

 

Cristoval seated himself to await the return of the cavalcade, lines of

anxiety on his face as he looked upon the motionless form, wan cheeks,

and darkened eyelids, and pondered the gloomy prospects. She was at the

limit of her strength. "Ah, _miserere nobis, Domine_!"

 

It was late afternoon when he was roused by sounds of the returning

horsemen. He rose to his knees, silently unsheathing his sword. The

movement awakened Rava, and he raised a warning hand. He heard them

halt to dismount, and soon they were passing, riding carelessly, the

search of the canyon evidently given over. He looked furtively out as

they straggled by.

 

"Curses, a thousand curses upon you, Gutiero, De Vera, Almar, Cueva—but

wait! One is wanting! There were nine, or I miscounted. Ah!—De

Valera!"

 

At that moment he heard a shout, faint and distant, up the canyon, and

saw Cueva draw rein. "Shall we wait for him?" Cristoval heard him ask.

 

"No!" replied one, with an oath. "Let him follow as he can. He’s

always behind, the pig, and we’ve wasted time enough for his lagging.

He’ll not wander far off this highway, I’ll venture a peso. Give him an

answer, then come."

 

"Give him answer with thine own wind, if thou hast wind to spare, I’ll

not," retorted the other, and gave spur. They moved on. Another distant

hallo, and Cristoval’s eyes suddenly fired. He glanced at Rava, and his

resolution formed. There was one chance, and only one, of saving her.

She could never survive another day of torture. Maimed and exhausted, a

league farther would be beyond her powers. They must have a horse.