Foes in Ambush | Page 8

"About fifteen, sir; off here." And the sergeant pointed out across the
plain, lying like a dun-colored blanket far towards the southern horizon.
"We can get barley and water at both?"
"Plenty, sir."
"The men would rather wait here, I suppose, until two or three
o'clock?"
"Very much, sir; they haven't been able to rest at all to-day. I've fed out
the last of the barley, though."
The lieutenant reflected a moment, pensively studying the legs of the
trumpeter's horse.
"Is there any chance of Moreno's people not having heard about the
Apaches in the Christobal?"
"Hardly, sir; they are nearer the Tucson road than we are. The stage
must have gone through this morning early. It's nothing new anyhow.
I've never known the time when the Indians were not in the
neighborhood of that range. Moreno, too, is an old hand, sir."

The lieutenant looked long and intently out over the dreary flats beyond
the foot-hills. Like the bottom of some prehistoric lake long since
sucked dry by the action of the sun, the parched earth stretched away in
mile after mile of monotonous, life-ridden desert, a Sahara without sign
of an oasis, a sandy barren shunned even by scorpion and centipede.
Already the glow was dying from the western sky. The red rim of the
distant range was purpling. The golden gleam that flashed from rock to
rock as the sun went down had vanished from all but the loftiest
summits, and deep, dark shadows were creeping slowly out across the
plain. Over the great expanse not so much as the faintest spark could be
seen. Aloft, the greater stars were beginning to peep through the veil of
pallid blue, while over the distant pass the sun's fair hand-maiden and
train-bearer, with slow, stately mien, was sinking in the wake of her
lord, as though following him to his rest. Not a breath of air was astir.
The night came on still as the realms of solitude. Only the low chatter
of the men, the occasional stamp of iron-shod hoof or the munching
jaws of the tired steeds broke in upon the perfect silence. From their
covert in the westward slope of the Christobal the two sentries of the
little command looked out upon a lifeless world. Beneath them,
whiffing their pipes after their frugal supper, the troopers were chatting
in low tone, some of them already spreading their blankets among the
shelving rocks. The embers from the cook fire glowed a deeper red as
the darkness gathered in the pass, and every man seemed to start as
though stung with sudden spur when sharp, quick, and imperative there
came the cry from the lips of the farther sentry,--
"Fire, sir,--out to the west!"
In an instant Lieutenant Drummond had leaped down the rocky cañon
and, field-glass in hand, was standing by the sentry's side. No need to
question "Where away?" Far out across the intervening plain a column
of flame was darting upward, gaining force and volume with every
moment. The lieutenant never even paused to raise the glass to his eyes.
No magnifying power was needed to see the distant pyre; no prolonged
search to tell him what was meant. The troopers who had sprung to
their feet and were already eagerly following turned short in their tracks
at his first word.

"Saddle up, men. It's the beacon at Signal Peak."
Then came a scene of bustle. No words were spoken; no further orders
given. With the skill of long practice the men gathered their few
belongings, shook out the dingy horse-blankets and then, carefully
folding, laid them creaseless back of the gaunt withers of their faithful
mounts. The worn old saddles were deftly set, the crude buckles of the
old days, long since replaced by cincha loop, snapped into place; lariats
coiled and swung from the cantle-rings; dusty old bits and bridles
adjusted; then came the slipping into carbine-slings and thimble-belts,
the quick lacing of Indian moccasin or canvas legging, the filling of
canteens in the tepid tanks below, while all the time the cooks and
packers were flying about gathering up the pots and pans and storing
rations, bags, and blankets on the roomy apparejos. Drummond was in
the act of swinging into saddle when his sergeant hastened up.
"Beg pardon, lieutenant, but shall I leave a small guard with the
pack-train or can they come right along?"
"They'll go with us, of course. We can't leave them here. We must head
for Ceralvo's at once. How could those Indians have got over that
way?"
"It is beyond me to say, sir. I didn't know they ever went west of the
Santa Maria."
"I can hardly believe it now, but there's no doubting that signal; it is to
call us thither at all speed wherever we