Chapter Eighteen.Who rode the Shod Horse?While waiting for the gaucho to rejoin them by the fire the two youths are not silent, but converse upon the event which saddens and still mystifies them. For up till this moment they have not seen anything, nor can they think of aught to account for the calamity which has befallen them—the double crime that has been committed. No more can they conceive who have been the perpetrators; though Cypriano all along has had his suspicions. And now for the first time he communicates them to his cousin, saying—“It’s been the work of Tovas Indians.”“Impossible, Cypriano!” exclaims Ludwig in surprise. “Why should they murder my poor father? What motive could they have had for it?”“Motive enough; at least one of them had.”“One! who mean you?”“Aguara.”“Aguara! But why he of all the others? And for what?”“For what? Simply to get possession of your sister.”Ludwig starts, showing greater astonishment than ever.“Cypriano!” he exclaims; “what do you mean?”“Just what I’ve said, cousin. You’re perhaps not aware of what I’ve myself known for long; that the chief’s son has been fixing his eyes on Francesca.”“The scoundrel!” cries Ludwig, with increasing indignation, for the first time apprised of the fact thus made known to him. Unobservant of such things generally, it had never occurred to him to reflect on what had long been patent to the jealous eyes of Cypriano. Besides, the thing seemed so absurd, even preposterous—a red-skinned savage presuming to look upon his sister in the light of a sweetheart, daring to love her—that the son of the Prussian naturalist, with all the prejudices of race, could not be otherwise than incredulous of it.“Are you sure of that?” he questions, still doubting. “Sure of what you’ve said, Cypriano?”“Quite sure,” is the confident rejoinder; “more than once I’ve observed Aguara’s free behaviour towards my cousin; and once would have thrashed the impudent redskin, but for uncle interfering. He was afraid it might get us into trouble with Naraguana.”“But did father himself know of it? I mean about Aguara and Francesca?”“No. I rather think not. And I disliked telling him.”All this is new light to Ludwig, and turns his thoughts into the same channel of suspicion where those of Cypriano have been already running. Still, whatever he may think of Naraguana’s son, he cannot bring himself to believe that Naraguana has been guilty. His father’s friend, and hitherto their protector!“It cannot be!” he exclaims; “surely it cannot be!”“It may be for all that, and in my opinion is. Ah! cousin, there’s no telling how an Indian will act. I never knew one who didn’t turn treacherous when it served his purpose. Whether the old chief has been so or not, I’m quite sure his son has. Take my word for it, Ludwig, it’s the Tovas Indians who’ve done this deed, and it will be with them we’ll have to deal.”“But whither can they have gone? and why went they off so suddenly and secretly, without letting father or any of us know. All that certainly seems strange.”“Not so strange when we think of what’s happened since. My idea is, it’s been all a planned thing. Aguara got his father to agree to his carrying off Francesca; and the old chief, controlled by the young one, let him take his way. Fearing to face uncle he first went off, taking the whole tribe along; and they’re now, no doubt, residing in some distant part of the Chaco, where they suppose we’ll never go after them. But Francesca will be there too; and we must follow and find her—ay, if we have to lay down our lives when she’s found. Shall we not, cousin?”“Yes; shall and will!” is Ludwig’s rejoinder in a tone of determination; their dialogue getting interrupted by Gaspar coming back to the camp-fire, and saying—“Now,señoritos! It’s high time we had some supper.”On making this announcement the gaucho himself sets about preparing their evening repast. It requires no great effort of culinary skill; since the more substantial portion of it has been already cooked, and is now presented in the shape of a cold shoulder of mutton, with a cake of corn bread, extracted from a pair ofalparejas, or saddle-bags. In the Chaco there are sheep—the Indians themselves breeding them—while since settling there the hunter-naturalist had not neglected either pastoral or agricultural pursuits. Hence the meal from which came that cake of maize-bread.With these twopièces de résistancenothing remains but to make a cup of “Paraguay tea,” for which Gaspar has provided all the materials, viz., an iron kettle for boiling water, cups of cocoa-nut shell termedmatés—for this is the name of the vessel, not the beverage—and certain tubes, thebombillas, to serve as spoons; the Paraguayan tea being imbibed, not in the ordinary way, but sucked up through thesebombillas. All the above implements, with a little sugar for sweetening; and, lastly, theyerbaitself, has the thoughtful gaucho brought along. No milk, however; the lacteal fluid not being deemed a necessary ingredient in the cup which cheers the Paraguayan people, without intoxicating them.Gaspar—as all gauchos, skilled in the concoction of it—in a short time has the threematésbrimful of the brew. Then thebombillasare inserted, and the process of sucking commences; suspended only at intervals while the more substantial mutton and maize-bread are being masticated.Meanwhile, as a measure of security, the camp-fire has been extinguished, though they still keep their places around its embers. And while eating, converse; Cypriano imparting to Gaspar the suspicions he has already communicated to his cousin.It is no new idea to the gaucho; instead, the very one his own thoughts have been dwelling upon. For he, too, had long observed the behaviour of the young Tovas chief towards the daughter of hisdueño. And what has now occurred seems to coincide with that—all except the supposed treachery of Naraguana. A good judge of character, as most gauchos are, Gaspar cannot think of the aged cacique having turned traitor. Still, as Ludwig, he is at a loss what to think. For why should the Tovas chief have made that abrupt departure from his late abiding place? The reason assigned by Cypriano is not, to his view, satisfactory; though he cannot imagine any other. So, they finish their suppers and retire to rest, without having arrived at any certain conclusion, one way or the other.With heads rested upon their saddles, and their ponchos wrapped around them, they seek sleep, Ludwig first finding it; next Cypriano, though he lies long awake—kept so by torturing thoughts. But tired nature at length overpowers him, and he too sinks into slumber.The gaucho alone surrenders not to the drowsy god; but, repelling his attacks, still lies reflecting. Thus run his reflections—as will be seen, touching near the truth:“Carramba! I can think of but one man in all the world who had an interest in the death of my dear master. One there was who’d have given a good deal to see him dead—that’s El Supremo. No doubt he searched high and low for us, after we gave him the slip. But then, two years gone by since! One would think it enough to have made him almost forget us. Forgive, no! that wouldn’t be Señor José Francia. He never forgives. Nor is it likely he has forgotten, either, what thedueñodid. Crossing him in his vile purpose, was just the sort of thing to stick in his crop for the remainder of his life; and I shouldn’t wonder if it’s his hand has been here. Odd, those tracks of a shod horse; four times back and forward! And the last of them, by their look, must have been made as late as yesterday—some time in the early morning, I should say. Beyond the oldtolderia, downward, they’ve gone. I wish I’d turned a bit that way as we came up, so as to be sure of it. Well, I’ll find that out, when we get back from this pursuit; which I very much fear will prove a wild goose chase.”For a time he lies without stirring, or moving a muscle, on his back, with eyes seemingly fixed upon the stars, like an ancient astrologer in the act of consulting them for the solution of some deep mystery hidden from mortal ken. Then, as if having just solved it, he gives a sudden start, exclaiming:“Sangre de Crista! that’s the explanation of all, the whole affair; murder, abduction, everything.”His words, though only muttered, awaken Cypriano, still only half-asleep.“What is it, Gaspar?” questions the youth.“Oh, nothing,señorito; only a mosquito that took a fancy to stick its bill into the bridge of my nose. But I’ve given MasterZancudohis quietus; and he won’t trouble me again.”Though the gaucho thinks he has at last got the clue to what has been mystifying them, like all skilled tacticians he intends for a time keeping it to himself. So, saying no more, he leaves his young companion to return to his slumbers: which the latter soon does. Himself now more widely awake than ever, he follows up the train of thought Cypriano had interrupted.“It’s clear that Francia has at length found out our whereabouts. I wonder he didn’t do so long ago; and have often warned thedueñoof the danger we were in. Of course, Naraguana kept him constantly assured; and with war to the knife between the Tovas and Paraguayans, no wonder my poor master was too careless and confident. But something has happened lately to affect their relations. The Indians moving so mysteriously away from their old place shows it. And these shod-tracks tell, almost for sure, that some white man has been on a visit to them, wherever they are now. Just as sure about this white man being an emissary from El Supremo. And who would his emissary be? Who sent on such an errand so likely ashim?”The emphasis on the “him” points to some one not yet mentioned, but whom the gaucho has in his mind. Soon, however, he gives the name, saying:“The scoundrel who bestrode that horse—and a thorough scoundrel too—is Rufino Valdez. Assassin, besides! It’s he who has murdered my master. I’d lay my life on it.”After arriving at this conclusion, he adds:“What a pity I didn’t think of this before! If but yesterday morning! He must have passed along the trail going back, and alone? Ah! the chance I’ve let escape me! Such an opportunity for settling old scores with Señor Rufino! Well, he and I may meet yet; and if we do, one of us will have to stay on the spot where that encounter takes place, or be carried from it feet foremost. I think I know which would go that way, and which the other.”Thus predicating, the gaucho pulls his poncho around his shoulders, and composes himself for sleep; though it is some time before he succeeds in procuring it.But Morpheus coming to his aid, proves too many for the passions which agitate him; and he at length sinks into a profound slumber, not broken till the curassows send up their shrill cries—as the crowing of Chanticleer—to tell that another day is dawning upon the Chaco.
While waiting for the gaucho to rejoin them by the fire the two youths are not silent, but converse upon the event which saddens and still mystifies them. For up till this moment they have not seen anything, nor can they think of aught to account for the calamity which has befallen them—the double crime that has been committed. No more can they conceive who have been the perpetrators; though Cypriano all along has had his suspicions. And now for the first time he communicates them to his cousin, saying—
“It’s been the work of Tovas Indians.”
“Impossible, Cypriano!” exclaims Ludwig in surprise. “Why should they murder my poor father? What motive could they have had for it?”
“Motive enough; at least one of them had.”
“One! who mean you?”
“Aguara.”
“Aguara! But why he of all the others? And for what?”
“For what? Simply to get possession of your sister.”
Ludwig starts, showing greater astonishment than ever.
“Cypriano!” he exclaims; “what do you mean?”
“Just what I’ve said, cousin. You’re perhaps not aware of what I’ve myself known for long; that the chief’s son has been fixing his eyes on Francesca.”
“The scoundrel!” cries Ludwig, with increasing indignation, for the first time apprised of the fact thus made known to him. Unobservant of such things generally, it had never occurred to him to reflect on what had long been patent to the jealous eyes of Cypriano. Besides, the thing seemed so absurd, even preposterous—a red-skinned savage presuming to look upon his sister in the light of a sweetheart, daring to love her—that the son of the Prussian naturalist, with all the prejudices of race, could not be otherwise than incredulous of it.
“Are you sure of that?” he questions, still doubting. “Sure of what you’ve said, Cypriano?”
“Quite sure,” is the confident rejoinder; “more than once I’ve observed Aguara’s free behaviour towards my cousin; and once would have thrashed the impudent redskin, but for uncle interfering. He was afraid it might get us into trouble with Naraguana.”
“But did father himself know of it? I mean about Aguara and Francesca?”
“No. I rather think not. And I disliked telling him.”
All this is new light to Ludwig, and turns his thoughts into the same channel of suspicion where those of Cypriano have been already running. Still, whatever he may think of Naraguana’s son, he cannot bring himself to believe that Naraguana has been guilty. His father’s friend, and hitherto their protector!
“It cannot be!” he exclaims; “surely it cannot be!”
“It may be for all that, and in my opinion is. Ah! cousin, there’s no telling how an Indian will act. I never knew one who didn’t turn treacherous when it served his purpose. Whether the old chief has been so or not, I’m quite sure his son has. Take my word for it, Ludwig, it’s the Tovas Indians who’ve done this deed, and it will be with them we’ll have to deal.”
“But whither can they have gone? and why went they off so suddenly and secretly, without letting father or any of us know. All that certainly seems strange.”
“Not so strange when we think of what’s happened since. My idea is, it’s been all a planned thing. Aguara got his father to agree to his carrying off Francesca; and the old chief, controlled by the young one, let him take his way. Fearing to face uncle he first went off, taking the whole tribe along; and they’re now, no doubt, residing in some distant part of the Chaco, where they suppose we’ll never go after them. But Francesca will be there too; and we must follow and find her—ay, if we have to lay down our lives when she’s found. Shall we not, cousin?”
“Yes; shall and will!” is Ludwig’s rejoinder in a tone of determination; their dialogue getting interrupted by Gaspar coming back to the camp-fire, and saying—
“Now,señoritos! It’s high time we had some supper.”
On making this announcement the gaucho himself sets about preparing their evening repast. It requires no great effort of culinary skill; since the more substantial portion of it has been already cooked, and is now presented in the shape of a cold shoulder of mutton, with a cake of corn bread, extracted from a pair ofalparejas, or saddle-bags. In the Chaco there are sheep—the Indians themselves breeding them—while since settling there the hunter-naturalist had not neglected either pastoral or agricultural pursuits. Hence the meal from which came that cake of maize-bread.
With these twopièces de résistancenothing remains but to make a cup of “Paraguay tea,” for which Gaspar has provided all the materials, viz., an iron kettle for boiling water, cups of cocoa-nut shell termedmatés—for this is the name of the vessel, not the beverage—and certain tubes, thebombillas, to serve as spoons; the Paraguayan tea being imbibed, not in the ordinary way, but sucked up through thesebombillas. All the above implements, with a little sugar for sweetening; and, lastly, theyerbaitself, has the thoughtful gaucho brought along. No milk, however; the lacteal fluid not being deemed a necessary ingredient in the cup which cheers the Paraguayan people, without intoxicating them.
Gaspar—as all gauchos, skilled in the concoction of it—in a short time has the threematésbrimful of the brew. Then thebombillasare inserted, and the process of sucking commences; suspended only at intervals while the more substantial mutton and maize-bread are being masticated.
Meanwhile, as a measure of security, the camp-fire has been extinguished, though they still keep their places around its embers. And while eating, converse; Cypriano imparting to Gaspar the suspicions he has already communicated to his cousin.
It is no new idea to the gaucho; instead, the very one his own thoughts have been dwelling upon. For he, too, had long observed the behaviour of the young Tovas chief towards the daughter of hisdueño. And what has now occurred seems to coincide with that—all except the supposed treachery of Naraguana. A good judge of character, as most gauchos are, Gaspar cannot think of the aged cacique having turned traitor. Still, as Ludwig, he is at a loss what to think. For why should the Tovas chief have made that abrupt departure from his late abiding place? The reason assigned by Cypriano is not, to his view, satisfactory; though he cannot imagine any other. So, they finish their suppers and retire to rest, without having arrived at any certain conclusion, one way or the other.
With heads rested upon their saddles, and their ponchos wrapped around them, they seek sleep, Ludwig first finding it; next Cypriano, though he lies long awake—kept so by torturing thoughts. But tired nature at length overpowers him, and he too sinks into slumber.
The gaucho alone surrenders not to the drowsy god; but, repelling his attacks, still lies reflecting. Thus run his reflections—as will be seen, touching near the truth:
“Carramba! I can think of but one man in all the world who had an interest in the death of my dear master. One there was who’d have given a good deal to see him dead—that’s El Supremo. No doubt he searched high and low for us, after we gave him the slip. But then, two years gone by since! One would think it enough to have made him almost forget us. Forgive, no! that wouldn’t be Señor José Francia. He never forgives. Nor is it likely he has forgotten, either, what thedueñodid. Crossing him in his vile purpose, was just the sort of thing to stick in his crop for the remainder of his life; and I shouldn’t wonder if it’s his hand has been here. Odd, those tracks of a shod horse; four times back and forward! And the last of them, by their look, must have been made as late as yesterday—some time in the early morning, I should say. Beyond the oldtolderia, downward, they’ve gone. I wish I’d turned a bit that way as we came up, so as to be sure of it. Well, I’ll find that out, when we get back from this pursuit; which I very much fear will prove a wild goose chase.”
For a time he lies without stirring, or moving a muscle, on his back, with eyes seemingly fixed upon the stars, like an ancient astrologer in the act of consulting them for the solution of some deep mystery hidden from mortal ken. Then, as if having just solved it, he gives a sudden start, exclaiming:
“Sangre de Crista! that’s the explanation of all, the whole affair; murder, abduction, everything.”
His words, though only muttered, awaken Cypriano, still only half-asleep.
“What is it, Gaspar?” questions the youth.
“Oh, nothing,señorito; only a mosquito that took a fancy to stick its bill into the bridge of my nose. But I’ve given MasterZancudohis quietus; and he won’t trouble me again.”
Though the gaucho thinks he has at last got the clue to what has been mystifying them, like all skilled tacticians he intends for a time keeping it to himself. So, saying no more, he leaves his young companion to return to his slumbers: which the latter soon does. Himself now more widely awake than ever, he follows up the train of thought Cypriano had interrupted.
“It’s clear that Francia has at length found out our whereabouts. I wonder he didn’t do so long ago; and have often warned thedueñoof the danger we were in. Of course, Naraguana kept him constantly assured; and with war to the knife between the Tovas and Paraguayans, no wonder my poor master was too careless and confident. But something has happened lately to affect their relations. The Indians moving so mysteriously away from their old place shows it. And these shod-tracks tell, almost for sure, that some white man has been on a visit to them, wherever they are now. Just as sure about this white man being an emissary from El Supremo. And who would his emissary be? Who sent on such an errand so likely ashim?”
The emphasis on the “him” points to some one not yet mentioned, but whom the gaucho has in his mind. Soon, however, he gives the name, saying:
“The scoundrel who bestrode that horse—and a thorough scoundrel too—is Rufino Valdez. Assassin, besides! It’s he who has murdered my master. I’d lay my life on it.”
After arriving at this conclusion, he adds:
“What a pity I didn’t think of this before! If but yesterday morning! He must have passed along the trail going back, and alone? Ah! the chance I’ve let escape me! Such an opportunity for settling old scores with Señor Rufino! Well, he and I may meet yet; and if we do, one of us will have to stay on the spot where that encounter takes place, or be carried from it feet foremost. I think I know which would go that way, and which the other.”
Thus predicating, the gaucho pulls his poncho around his shoulders, and composes himself for sleep; though it is some time before he succeeds in procuring it.
But Morpheus coming to his aid, proves too many for the passions which agitate him; and he at length sinks into a profound slumber, not broken till the curassows send up their shrill cries—as the crowing of Chanticleer—to tell that another day is dawning upon the Chaco.
Chapter Nineteen.The “Lost Ball.”Travellers on such an errand as that which is carrying the gaucho and his youthful companions across the Chaco, do not lie abed late; and they are up and stirring as the first streak of blue-grey light shows itself above the horizon.Again a tiny fire is kindled; the kettle hung over it; and thematés, with thebombillas, called into requisition.The breakfast is just as was their supper—cold mutton, corn bread, andyerbatea.By the time they have despatched it, which they do in all haste, it is clear enough to permit of their taking up the trail they have been following. So, saddling their horses, they return to, and proceed along it.As hitherto, it continues up the bank of the Pilcomayo, and at intervals they observe the tracks of Francesca’s pony, where they have not been trampled out by the other horses behind. And, as on the preceding day, they see the hoof-marks of the shod animal, both going and returning—the return track evidently the more recently made. They notice them, however, only up to a certain point—about twenty miles beyond the crossing-place of that tributary stream, now so full of sad interest to them. Here, in a grove ofalgarobias, they come upon the spot where those they are in pursuit of must have made their night bivouac; this told by some fragments of food lying scattered around, and the grass burnt in two places—large circular discs where their camp-fires had been kindled. The fires are out, and the ashes cold now; for that must have been two nights before.Dismounting, they too make halt by thealgarobiagrove—partly to breathe their horses, which have been all the morning kept at top speed, through their anxiety to overtake the Indians—but more for the sake of giving examination to the abandoned camp, in the hope that something left there may lead to further elucidation of the crime and its causes; possibly enable them to determine, beyond doubt, who have been its perpetrators.At first nothing is found to give them the slightest clue; only the ashes and half-burned faggots of the fires, with some bits ofsipos—which have been cut from creeping plants entwining the trees overhead—the corresponding pieces, in all likelihood, having been used as rope tackle for some purpose the gaucho cannot guess. These, and the fragments of food already referred to, with some bones of birds clean picked, and the shells of a half-score ostrich eggs, are all thedébristhey can discover.But none of these items give any indication as to who made bivouac there; beyond the fact, already understood and unquestioned, that they were Indians, with the further certainty of their having stayed on the spot over-night; this shown by the grass pressed down where their bodies had lain astretch; as also the circular patches browsed bare by their horses, around the picket pins which had held them.Indians certainly; but of what tribe there is nothing on that spot to tell—neither sign nor token.So concluding, Cypriano and Ludwig have climbed back into their saddles—the former terribly impatient to proceed—but Gaspar still stays afoot, holding his horse by the bridle at long reach, and leading the animal about from place to place, as if not yet satisfied with the search they have made. For there are spots where the grass is long, and the ground rough, overgrown also with weeds and bushes. Possibly among these he may yet discover something.And something he does discover—a globe-shaped object lying half-hid among the weeds, about the size and colour of a cricket ball. This to you, young reader; for Gaspar knows nothing of your national game. But he knows everything about balls of another kind—thebolas—that weapon, without which a South American gaucho would feel as a crusader of the olden time lacking half his armour.And it is abolathat lies before him; though one of a peculiar kind, as he sees after stooping and taking it up. A round stone covered with cow’s skin; this stretched and sewed over it tight as that on a tennis ball.But to thebolathere is no cord attached, nor mark of where one has ever been. For there never has been such, as Gaspar at a glance perceives. Well knows the gaucho that the ball he holds in his hand has not been one of a pair strung together—as with the ordinarybolas—nor of three in like manner united, as is sometimes the case; but abola, for still it is abola, of a sort different from either, both in its make and the mode of using it, as also the effect it is designed to produce.“What is it, Gaspar?” simultaneously interrogate the two, as they see him so closely examining the thing he has picked up. At the same time they turn their horses’ heads towards him.“Una bola perdida.”“Ah! a ball the Indians have left behind—lost, you mean.”“No,señoritos; I don’t mean that, exactly. Of course, the redskins have left it behind, and so lost it. But that isn’t the reason of my calling it abola perdida.”“Why, then, Caspar?” asks Ludwig, with the hereditary instincts of thesavant, like his father, curious about all such things. “Why do you call it a lost ball?”“Because that’s the name we gauchos give it, and the name by which it is known among those who make use of it—these Chaco Indians.”“And pray, what do they use it for? I never heard of the thing. What is its purpose?”“One for which, I hope, neither it nor any of its sort will ever be employed upon us. The Virgin forbid! For it is no child’s toy, I can assure you,señoritos; but a most murderous weapon. I’ve witnessed its effects more than once—seen it flung full thirty yards, and hit a spot not bigger than the breadth of my hand; the head of a horse, crushing in the animal’s skull as if done by a club ofquebracha. Heaven protect me, and you too,muchachos, from ever getting struck by abola perdida!”“But why alostball?” asks Ludwig, with curiosity still unsatisfied.“Oh! that’s plain enough,” answers the gaucho. “As you see, when once launched there’s no knowing where it may roll to; and often gets lost in the long grass or among bushes; unlike the ordinarybolas, which stick to the thing aimed at—that is, if thrown as they should be.”“What do you make of its being found here?” interrogates Cypriano, more interested about the ball in a sense different from the curiosity felt by his cousin.“Much,” answers Caspar, looking grave, but without offering explanation; for he seems busied with some calculation, or conjecture.“Indeed!” simultaneously exclaim the others, with interest rekindled, Cypriano regarding him with earnest glance.“Yes, indeed, young masters,” proceeds the gaucho. “The thing I now hold in my hand has once, and not very long ago, been in the hands of a Tovas Indian!”“A Tovas!” exclaims Cypriano, excitedly. “What reason have you for thinking so?”“The best of all reasons. Because, so far as is known to me, no other Chaco Indians but they use thebola perdida. That ball has been handled, mislaid, and left here behind by a Tovas traitor. You are right,señorito,” he adds, speaking to Cypriano. “Whoever may have murdered my poor master, your uncle, Aguara is he who has carried off your cousin.”“Let us on!” cries Cypriano, without another word. “O, Ludwig!” he adds, “we mustn’t lose a moment, nor make the least delay. Think of dear Francesca in the power of that savage beast. What may he not do with her?”Ludwig needs no such urging to lead him on. His heart of brother is boiling with rage, as that of son almost broken by grief; and away ride they along the trail, with more haste and greater earnestness than ever.
Travellers on such an errand as that which is carrying the gaucho and his youthful companions across the Chaco, do not lie abed late; and they are up and stirring as the first streak of blue-grey light shows itself above the horizon.
Again a tiny fire is kindled; the kettle hung over it; and thematés, with thebombillas, called into requisition.
The breakfast is just as was their supper—cold mutton, corn bread, andyerbatea.
By the time they have despatched it, which they do in all haste, it is clear enough to permit of their taking up the trail they have been following. So, saddling their horses, they return to, and proceed along it.
As hitherto, it continues up the bank of the Pilcomayo, and at intervals they observe the tracks of Francesca’s pony, where they have not been trampled out by the other horses behind. And, as on the preceding day, they see the hoof-marks of the shod animal, both going and returning—the return track evidently the more recently made. They notice them, however, only up to a certain point—about twenty miles beyond the crossing-place of that tributary stream, now so full of sad interest to them. Here, in a grove ofalgarobias, they come upon the spot where those they are in pursuit of must have made their night bivouac; this told by some fragments of food lying scattered around, and the grass burnt in two places—large circular discs where their camp-fires had been kindled. The fires are out, and the ashes cold now; for that must have been two nights before.
Dismounting, they too make halt by thealgarobiagrove—partly to breathe their horses, which have been all the morning kept at top speed, through their anxiety to overtake the Indians—but more for the sake of giving examination to the abandoned camp, in the hope that something left there may lead to further elucidation of the crime and its causes; possibly enable them to determine, beyond doubt, who have been its perpetrators.
At first nothing is found to give them the slightest clue; only the ashes and half-burned faggots of the fires, with some bits ofsipos—which have been cut from creeping plants entwining the trees overhead—the corresponding pieces, in all likelihood, having been used as rope tackle for some purpose the gaucho cannot guess. These, and the fragments of food already referred to, with some bones of birds clean picked, and the shells of a half-score ostrich eggs, are all thedébristhey can discover.
But none of these items give any indication as to who made bivouac there; beyond the fact, already understood and unquestioned, that they were Indians, with the further certainty of their having stayed on the spot over-night; this shown by the grass pressed down where their bodies had lain astretch; as also the circular patches browsed bare by their horses, around the picket pins which had held them.
Indians certainly; but of what tribe there is nothing on that spot to tell—neither sign nor token.
So concluding, Cypriano and Ludwig have climbed back into their saddles—the former terribly impatient to proceed—but Gaspar still stays afoot, holding his horse by the bridle at long reach, and leading the animal about from place to place, as if not yet satisfied with the search they have made. For there are spots where the grass is long, and the ground rough, overgrown also with weeds and bushes. Possibly among these he may yet discover something.
And something he does discover—a globe-shaped object lying half-hid among the weeds, about the size and colour of a cricket ball. This to you, young reader; for Gaspar knows nothing of your national game. But he knows everything about balls of another kind—thebolas—that weapon, without which a South American gaucho would feel as a crusader of the olden time lacking half his armour.
And it is abolathat lies before him; though one of a peculiar kind, as he sees after stooping and taking it up. A round stone covered with cow’s skin; this stretched and sewed over it tight as that on a tennis ball.
But to thebolathere is no cord attached, nor mark of where one has ever been. For there never has been such, as Gaspar at a glance perceives. Well knows the gaucho that the ball he holds in his hand has not been one of a pair strung together—as with the ordinarybolas—nor of three in like manner united, as is sometimes the case; but abola, for still it is abola, of a sort different from either, both in its make and the mode of using it, as also the effect it is designed to produce.
“What is it, Gaspar?” simultaneously interrogate the two, as they see him so closely examining the thing he has picked up. At the same time they turn their horses’ heads towards him.
“Una bola perdida.”
“Ah! a ball the Indians have left behind—lost, you mean.”
“No,señoritos; I don’t mean that, exactly. Of course, the redskins have left it behind, and so lost it. But that isn’t the reason of my calling it abola perdida.”
“Why, then, Caspar?” asks Ludwig, with the hereditary instincts of thesavant, like his father, curious about all such things. “Why do you call it a lost ball?”
“Because that’s the name we gauchos give it, and the name by which it is known among those who make use of it—these Chaco Indians.”
“And pray, what do they use it for? I never heard of the thing. What is its purpose?”
“One for which, I hope, neither it nor any of its sort will ever be employed upon us. The Virgin forbid! For it is no child’s toy, I can assure you,señoritos; but a most murderous weapon. I’ve witnessed its effects more than once—seen it flung full thirty yards, and hit a spot not bigger than the breadth of my hand; the head of a horse, crushing in the animal’s skull as if done by a club ofquebracha. Heaven protect me, and you too,muchachos, from ever getting struck by abola perdida!”
“But why alostball?” asks Ludwig, with curiosity still unsatisfied.
“Oh! that’s plain enough,” answers the gaucho. “As you see, when once launched there’s no knowing where it may roll to; and often gets lost in the long grass or among bushes; unlike the ordinarybolas, which stick to the thing aimed at—that is, if thrown as they should be.”
“What do you make of its being found here?” interrogates Cypriano, more interested about the ball in a sense different from the curiosity felt by his cousin.
“Much,” answers Caspar, looking grave, but without offering explanation; for he seems busied with some calculation, or conjecture.
“Indeed!” simultaneously exclaim the others, with interest rekindled, Cypriano regarding him with earnest glance.
“Yes, indeed, young masters,” proceeds the gaucho. “The thing I now hold in my hand has once, and not very long ago, been in the hands of a Tovas Indian!”
“A Tovas!” exclaims Cypriano, excitedly. “What reason have you for thinking so?”
“The best of all reasons. Because, so far as is known to me, no other Chaco Indians but they use thebola perdida. That ball has been handled, mislaid, and left here behind by a Tovas traitor. You are right,señorito,” he adds, speaking to Cypriano. “Whoever may have murdered my poor master, your uncle, Aguara is he who has carried off your cousin.”
“Let us on!” cries Cypriano, without another word. “O, Ludwig!” he adds, “we mustn’t lose a moment, nor make the least delay. Think of dear Francesca in the power of that savage beast. What may he not do with her?”
Ludwig needs no such urging to lead him on. His heart of brother is boiling with rage, as that of son almost broken by grief; and away ride they along the trail, with more haste and greater earnestness than ever.
Chapter Twenty.Obstructed by a “Biscachera.”In their fresh “spurt,” the trackers had not proceeded very far when compelled to slacken speed, and finally come to a dead stop. This from something seen before them upon the plain which threatens to bar their further progress—at least in the course they are pursuing.The thing thus obstructing causes them neither surprise nor alarm, only annoyance; for it is one with which they all are familiar—abiscachera, or warren ofbiscachas.It is scarce possible to travel twenty miles across the plains bordering the La Plata or Parana, without coming upon the burrows of this singular rodent; a prominent and ever-recurring feature in the scenery. There thebiscacha, orviscacha—as it is indifferently spelt—plays pretty much the same part as the rabbit in our northern lands. It is, however, a much larger animal, and of a quite different species or genus—thelagostoinus trichodactylus. In shape of head, body, and other respects, it more resembles a gigantic rat; and, like the latter, it has a long tapering tail, which strengthens the resemblance. But, unlike either rabbit or rat, its hind feet are furnished with but three toes; hence its specific name,trichodactylus. The same scarcity of toes is a characteristic of theagoutis, capivaras, and so called “Guinea pigs,” all of which are cousins-german of thebiscacha.The latter makes its burrows very much in the same manner as the North-American marmot (Arctomys Ludoviciana), better known by the name of “prairie dog;” only that the subterranean dwellings of thebiscachaare larger, from the needs of a bigger-bodied animal. But, strange to say, in these of the pampa there exists the same queer companionship as in those of the prairie—a bird associating with the quadruped—a species of owl, theAthene cunicularia. This shares occupation with thebiscacha, as does the other, an allied species, with the prairie dog. Whether the bird be a welcome recipient of the beast’s hospitality, or an intruder upon it, is a question still undetermined; but the latter seems the more probable, since, in the stomachs of owls of the northern species, are frequently found prairie dog “pups;” a fact which seems to show anything but amicable relations between these creatures so oddly consorting.There is yet another member of these communities, apparently quite as much out of place—a reptile; for snakes also make their home in the holes both ofbiscachaand prairie dog. And in both cases the reptile intruder is a rattlesnake, though the species is different. In these, no doubt, the owls find their staple of food.Perhaps the most singular habit of thebiscachais its collecting every loose article which chances to be lying near, and dragging all up to its burrow; by the mouth of which it forms a heap, often as large as the half of a cart-load dumped carelessly down. No matter what the thing be—stick, stone, root of thistle, lump of indurated clay, bone, ball of dry dung—all seem equally suitable for these miscellaneous accumulations. Nothing can be dropped in the neighbourhood of abiscachahole but is soon borne off, and added to its collection ofbric-à-brac. Even a watch which had slipped from the fob of a traveller—as recorded by the naturalist. Darwin—was found forming part of one; the owner, acquainted with the habits of the animal, on missing the watch, having returned upon his route, and searched everybiscachamound along it, confident that in some one of them he would find the missing article—as he did.The districts frequented by these three-toed creatures, and which seem most suitable to their habits, are those tracts ofcampowhere the soil is a heavy loam or clay, and the vegetation luxuriant. Its congener, theagouti, affects the arid sterile plains of Patagonia, while thebiscachais most met with on the fertile pampas further north; more especially along the borders of those far-famed thickets of tall thistles—forests they might almost be called—upon the roots of which it is said to feed. They also make their burrows near thecardonales, tracts overgrown by the cardoon; also a species of large malvaceous plant, though quite different from the pampas thistles.Another singular fact bearing upon the habits of thebiscachamay here deserve mention. These animals are not found in the Banda Oriental, as the country lying east of the Uruguay river is called; and yet in this district exist conditions of soil, climate, and vegetation precisely similar to those on its western side. The Uruguay river seems to have formed a bar to their migration eastward; a circumstance all the more remarkable, since they have passed over the Parana, a much broader stream, and are common throughout the province of Entre Rios, as it name imports, lying between the two.Nothing of all this occupies the thoughts of the three trackers, as they approach the particularbiscacherawhich has presented itself to their view, athwart their path. Of such things they neither think, speak, nor care. Instead, they are but dissatisfied to see it there; knowing it will give them some trouble to get to the other side of it, besides greatly retarding their progress. If they ride right across it at all, they must needs go at a snail’s pace, and with the utmost circumspection. A single false step made by any of their horses might be the dislocation of a joint, or the breaking of a leg. On the pampa such incidents are far from rare; for the burrows of thebiscachasare carried like galleries underground, and therefore dangerous to any heavy quadruped so unfortunate as to sink through the surface turf. In short, to ride across abiscacherawould be on a par with passing on horseback through a rabbit warren.“Caspita!” is the vexed exclamation of the gaucho, as he reins up in front of the obstruction, with other angry words appended, on seeing that it extends right and left far as the verge of vision, while forward it appears to have a breadth of at least half a league.“We can’t gallop across that,” he adds, “nor yet go at even a decent walk. We must crawl for it,muchachos, or ride all the way round. And there’s no knowing how far round the thing might force us; leagues likely. It looks the biggestbiscacheraI ever set eyes on.Carra-i-i!”The final ejaculation is drawled out with a prolonged and bitter emphasis, as he again glances right and left, but sees no end either way.“Ill luck it is,” he continues, after completing his reconnaissance. “Satan’s own luck our coming upon this. A whole country covered with traps! Well, it won’t help us any making a mouth about it; and I think our best way will be to strike straight across.”“I think so too,” says Cypriano, impatient to proceed.“Let us on into it, then. But,hijos mios; have a care how you go. Look well to the ground before you, and keep your horses as far from the holes as you can. Where there’s two near together steer midways between, giving both the widest berth possible. Every one of them’s a dangerous pitfall.Caspita! what am I prattling about? Let me give you the lead, and you ride after, track for track.”So saying, he heads his horse in among the rubbish heaps, each with its hole yawning adjacent: the others, as admonished, close following, and keeping in his tracks.They move onward at a creeping pace, every now and then forced to advance circuitously, but taking no heed of the creatures upon whose domain they have so unceremoniously intruded. In truth, they have no thought about these, nor eyes for them. Enough if they can avoid intrusion into their dwellings by a short cut downwards.Nor do thebiscachasseem at all alarmed at the sight of such formidable invaders. They are anything but shy creatures; instead, far more given to curiosity; so much that they will sit squatted on their hams, in an upright attitude, watching the traveller as he passes within less than a score yards of them, the expression on their faces being that of grave contemplation. Only, if he draw too familiarly near, and they imagine him an enemy, there is a scamper off, their short fore-legs giving them a gait also heightening their resemblance to rats.As a matter of course, such confidence makes them an easy prey to thebiscachacatcher; for there are men who follow taking them as a profession. Their flesh is sweet and good to eat, while their skins are a marketable commodity; of late years forming an article of export to England, and other European countries.Heeding neither the quadrupeds, nor the birds, their fellow-tenants of the burrow—the latter perched upon the summits of the mounds, and one after another flying off with a defiant screech as the horsemen drew near—these, after an hour spent in a slow but diligent advance, at length, and without accident, ride clear of thebiscachera, and out upon the smooth open plain beyond it.Soon as feeling themselves on firm ground, every spur of the party is plied; and they go off at a tearing pace, to make up for the lost time.
In their fresh “spurt,” the trackers had not proceeded very far when compelled to slacken speed, and finally come to a dead stop. This from something seen before them upon the plain which threatens to bar their further progress—at least in the course they are pursuing.
The thing thus obstructing causes them neither surprise nor alarm, only annoyance; for it is one with which they all are familiar—abiscachera, or warren ofbiscachas.
It is scarce possible to travel twenty miles across the plains bordering the La Plata or Parana, without coming upon the burrows of this singular rodent; a prominent and ever-recurring feature in the scenery. There thebiscacha, orviscacha—as it is indifferently spelt—plays pretty much the same part as the rabbit in our northern lands. It is, however, a much larger animal, and of a quite different species or genus—thelagostoinus trichodactylus. In shape of head, body, and other respects, it more resembles a gigantic rat; and, like the latter, it has a long tapering tail, which strengthens the resemblance. But, unlike either rabbit or rat, its hind feet are furnished with but three toes; hence its specific name,trichodactylus. The same scarcity of toes is a characteristic of theagoutis, capivaras, and so called “Guinea pigs,” all of which are cousins-german of thebiscacha.
The latter makes its burrows very much in the same manner as the North-American marmot (Arctomys Ludoviciana), better known by the name of “prairie dog;” only that the subterranean dwellings of thebiscachaare larger, from the needs of a bigger-bodied animal. But, strange to say, in these of the pampa there exists the same queer companionship as in those of the prairie—a bird associating with the quadruped—a species of owl, theAthene cunicularia. This shares occupation with thebiscacha, as does the other, an allied species, with the prairie dog. Whether the bird be a welcome recipient of the beast’s hospitality, or an intruder upon it, is a question still undetermined; but the latter seems the more probable, since, in the stomachs of owls of the northern species, are frequently found prairie dog “pups;” a fact which seems to show anything but amicable relations between these creatures so oddly consorting.
There is yet another member of these communities, apparently quite as much out of place—a reptile; for snakes also make their home in the holes both ofbiscachaand prairie dog. And in both cases the reptile intruder is a rattlesnake, though the species is different. In these, no doubt, the owls find their staple of food.
Perhaps the most singular habit of thebiscachais its collecting every loose article which chances to be lying near, and dragging all up to its burrow; by the mouth of which it forms a heap, often as large as the half of a cart-load dumped carelessly down. No matter what the thing be—stick, stone, root of thistle, lump of indurated clay, bone, ball of dry dung—all seem equally suitable for these miscellaneous accumulations. Nothing can be dropped in the neighbourhood of abiscachahole but is soon borne off, and added to its collection ofbric-à-brac. Even a watch which had slipped from the fob of a traveller—as recorded by the naturalist. Darwin—was found forming part of one; the owner, acquainted with the habits of the animal, on missing the watch, having returned upon his route, and searched everybiscachamound along it, confident that in some one of them he would find the missing article—as he did.
The districts frequented by these three-toed creatures, and which seem most suitable to their habits, are those tracts ofcampowhere the soil is a heavy loam or clay, and the vegetation luxuriant. Its congener, theagouti, affects the arid sterile plains of Patagonia, while thebiscachais most met with on the fertile pampas further north; more especially along the borders of those far-famed thickets of tall thistles—forests they might almost be called—upon the roots of which it is said to feed. They also make their burrows near thecardonales, tracts overgrown by the cardoon; also a species of large malvaceous plant, though quite different from the pampas thistles.
Another singular fact bearing upon the habits of thebiscachamay here deserve mention. These animals are not found in the Banda Oriental, as the country lying east of the Uruguay river is called; and yet in this district exist conditions of soil, climate, and vegetation precisely similar to those on its western side. The Uruguay river seems to have formed a bar to their migration eastward; a circumstance all the more remarkable, since they have passed over the Parana, a much broader stream, and are common throughout the province of Entre Rios, as it name imports, lying between the two.
Nothing of all this occupies the thoughts of the three trackers, as they approach the particularbiscacherawhich has presented itself to their view, athwart their path. Of such things they neither think, speak, nor care. Instead, they are but dissatisfied to see it there; knowing it will give them some trouble to get to the other side of it, besides greatly retarding their progress. If they ride right across it at all, they must needs go at a snail’s pace, and with the utmost circumspection. A single false step made by any of their horses might be the dislocation of a joint, or the breaking of a leg. On the pampa such incidents are far from rare; for the burrows of thebiscachasare carried like galleries underground, and therefore dangerous to any heavy quadruped so unfortunate as to sink through the surface turf. In short, to ride across abiscacherawould be on a par with passing on horseback through a rabbit warren.
“Caspita!” is the vexed exclamation of the gaucho, as he reins up in front of the obstruction, with other angry words appended, on seeing that it extends right and left far as the verge of vision, while forward it appears to have a breadth of at least half a league.
“We can’t gallop across that,” he adds, “nor yet go at even a decent walk. We must crawl for it,muchachos, or ride all the way round. And there’s no knowing how far round the thing might force us; leagues likely. It looks the biggestbiscacheraI ever set eyes on.Carra-i-i!”
The final ejaculation is drawled out with a prolonged and bitter emphasis, as he again glances right and left, but sees no end either way.
“Ill luck it is,” he continues, after completing his reconnaissance. “Satan’s own luck our coming upon this. A whole country covered with traps! Well, it won’t help us any making a mouth about it; and I think our best way will be to strike straight across.”
“I think so too,” says Cypriano, impatient to proceed.
“Let us on into it, then. But,hijos mios; have a care how you go. Look well to the ground before you, and keep your horses as far from the holes as you can. Where there’s two near together steer midways between, giving both the widest berth possible. Every one of them’s a dangerous pitfall.Caspita! what am I prattling about? Let me give you the lead, and you ride after, track for track.”
So saying, he heads his horse in among the rubbish heaps, each with its hole yawning adjacent: the others, as admonished, close following, and keeping in his tracks.
They move onward at a creeping pace, every now and then forced to advance circuitously, but taking no heed of the creatures upon whose domain they have so unceremoniously intruded. In truth, they have no thought about these, nor eyes for them. Enough if they can avoid intrusion into their dwellings by a short cut downwards.
Nor do thebiscachasseem at all alarmed at the sight of such formidable invaders. They are anything but shy creatures; instead, far more given to curiosity; so much that they will sit squatted on their hams, in an upright attitude, watching the traveller as he passes within less than a score yards of them, the expression on their faces being that of grave contemplation. Only, if he draw too familiarly near, and they imagine him an enemy, there is a scamper off, their short fore-legs giving them a gait also heightening their resemblance to rats.
As a matter of course, such confidence makes them an easy prey to thebiscachacatcher; for there are men who follow taking them as a profession. Their flesh is sweet and good to eat, while their skins are a marketable commodity; of late years forming an article of export to England, and other European countries.
Heeding neither the quadrupeds, nor the birds, their fellow-tenants of the burrow—the latter perched upon the summits of the mounds, and one after another flying off with a defiant screech as the horsemen drew near—these, after an hour spent in a slow but diligent advance, at length, and without accident, ride clear of thebiscachera, and out upon the smooth open plain beyond it.
Soon as feeling themselves on firm ground, every spur of the party is plied; and they go off at a tearing pace, to make up for the lost time.
Chapter Twenty One.A Shoulder out of Joint.When Gaspar, on first sighting thebiscachera, poured forth vials of wrath upon it, he little dreamt that another burrow of similar kind, and almost at the very same hour, was doing him a service by causing not only obstruction, but serious damage to the man he regards as his greatest enemy.This second warren lay at least a hundred miles from the one they have succeeded in crossing, in a direction due east from the latter, and on the straight route for the city of Assuncion.Let us throw aside circumlocution, and at once give account of the incident.On this same day, and, as already said, almost the same hour, when the trackers are brought up by thebiscachera, a single horseman is seen with head turned towards the Paraguay, and making as if to reach this river; from which he is distant some eighteen or twenty miles. He rides at a rapid rate; and that he has been doing so for a long continuance of time, can be told by the lagging gait of his horse, and the sweat saturating the animal’s coat from neck to croup. For all, he slackens not the pace; instead, seems anxious to increase it, every now and then digging his spurs deep, and by strokes of a spear shaft he carries in his hands, urging his roadster onward. Anyone witness to his acting in this apparently frantic fashion, would suppose him either demented, or fleeing from pursuers who seek nothing less than his life. But as the plain over which he rides is smooth, level, and treeless for long leagues to his rear as also to right and left, and no pursuer nor aught of living thing visible upon it, the latter, at least, cannot be the case. And for the former, a glance at the man’s face tells that neither is insanity the cause of his cruel behaviour to his horse. Rufino Valdez—for he is the hastening horseman—if bad, is by no means mad.Superfluous to say, what the errand pressing him to such speed. In soliloquy he has himself declared it: hastening to communicate news which he knows will be welcome to the Paraguayan tyrant, and afterwards return to Halberger’sestanciawith a party of those hireling soldiers—quaintly termedcuartelerosfrom their living in barracks, orcuartels.With this sinister purpose in view, and the expectation of a rich reward, thevaqueanohas given his roadster but little rest since parting from the Tovas’ camp; and the animal is now nigh broken down. Little recks its rider. Unlike a true gaucho, he cares not what mischance may befall his steed, so long as it serves his present necessity. If it but carry him to the Paraguay, it may drop down dead on the river’s bank, for aught he will want, or think of it afterwards.Thus free from solicitude about his dumb companion, he spurs and flogs the poor creature to the best speed it is able to make. Not much this; for every now and then it totters in its steps, and threatens going to grass, in a way different from what it might wish.“About twenty miles,” thevaqueanomutters to himself, with a glance, cast inquiringly ahead. “It can’t be more than that to the river itself. Question is, whether I can make it anywheres near Assuncion. I’m not sure about this trail; evidently only a cattle run. It may lead me too much above or below. In any case,” he adds, “I must bring out near one of theguardias, so thick along the bank, and the soldiers of the post will ferry me across. From there I’ll have a good road to the town.”So consoling himself, he keeps on; no longer paying much attention to the doubtful cattle track, but rather taking guidance from the sun. This going down is directly behind his back, and so tells him the due course east, as well as west; for it is eastward he wishes to go. Now, near the horizon, it casts an elongated shadow of himself and his animal, far to the front; and after this he rides, as though following in the footsteps of some giant on horseback!The sun soon after setting, the shadow changes, veering round to his rear. But it is now made by the moon, which is also low in the sky; only before his face, instead of behind his back. For it would be the season of harvest—were such known in the Chaco—and the moon is at her full, lighting up thecampowith a clearness unknown to northern lands.Were it otherwise, Rufino Valdez might have halted here, and been forced to stay in the Chaco for another night. But tempted by the bright moonlight, and the thought of his journey so near an end, he resolves differently; and once more pricking his tired, steed with spurs long since blood-clotted, he again forces it into a gallop.But the pace is only for a short while sustained. Before going much further he feels his horse floundering between his legs; while a glance to the ground shows him he is riding through abiscachera!Absorbed in thought—perhaps perfecting some wicked scheme—he had not noticed the burrow till now. Now he sees it—holes and heaps all around him—at the same time hearing the screeches of the owls, as the frightened birds fly up out of his path.He is about to draw bridle, when the reins are suddenly jerked from his grasp—by his horse, which has gone headlong to the ground! At the same instant he hears a sound, like the cracking of a dead stick snapped crosswise. It is not that, but the shank of his horse, broken above the pastern joint! It is the last sound he hears then, or for some time after; he himself sustaining damage, though of a different kind—the dislocation of a shoulder-blade—that of the arm already injured—with a shock which deprives him of his senses.Long lies he upon that moonlit plain, neither hearing the cries of the night birds nor seeing the great ratlike quadrupeds that, in their curiosity, come crowding close to, and go running around him!And though consciousness at length returns, he remains in that same place till morning’s light—and for the whole of another day and night—leaving the spot, and upon it his broken-legged horse, himself to limp slowly away, leaning upon his guilty spear, as one wounded on a battle-field, but one who has been fighting for a bad cause.He reaches Assuncion—though not till the third day after—and there gets his broken bones set. But for Gaspar Mendez, there may have been luck in that shoulder-blade being put out of joint.
When Gaspar, on first sighting thebiscachera, poured forth vials of wrath upon it, he little dreamt that another burrow of similar kind, and almost at the very same hour, was doing him a service by causing not only obstruction, but serious damage to the man he regards as his greatest enemy.
This second warren lay at least a hundred miles from the one they have succeeded in crossing, in a direction due east from the latter, and on the straight route for the city of Assuncion.
Let us throw aside circumlocution, and at once give account of the incident.
On this same day, and, as already said, almost the same hour, when the trackers are brought up by thebiscachera, a single horseman is seen with head turned towards the Paraguay, and making as if to reach this river; from which he is distant some eighteen or twenty miles. He rides at a rapid rate; and that he has been doing so for a long continuance of time, can be told by the lagging gait of his horse, and the sweat saturating the animal’s coat from neck to croup. For all, he slackens not the pace; instead, seems anxious to increase it, every now and then digging his spurs deep, and by strokes of a spear shaft he carries in his hands, urging his roadster onward. Anyone witness to his acting in this apparently frantic fashion, would suppose him either demented, or fleeing from pursuers who seek nothing less than his life. But as the plain over which he rides is smooth, level, and treeless for long leagues to his rear as also to right and left, and no pursuer nor aught of living thing visible upon it, the latter, at least, cannot be the case. And for the former, a glance at the man’s face tells that neither is insanity the cause of his cruel behaviour to his horse. Rufino Valdez—for he is the hastening horseman—if bad, is by no means mad.
Superfluous to say, what the errand pressing him to such speed. In soliloquy he has himself declared it: hastening to communicate news which he knows will be welcome to the Paraguayan tyrant, and afterwards return to Halberger’sestanciawith a party of those hireling soldiers—quaintly termedcuartelerosfrom their living in barracks, orcuartels.
With this sinister purpose in view, and the expectation of a rich reward, thevaqueanohas given his roadster but little rest since parting from the Tovas’ camp; and the animal is now nigh broken down. Little recks its rider. Unlike a true gaucho, he cares not what mischance may befall his steed, so long as it serves his present necessity. If it but carry him to the Paraguay, it may drop down dead on the river’s bank, for aught he will want, or think of it afterwards.
Thus free from solicitude about his dumb companion, he spurs and flogs the poor creature to the best speed it is able to make. Not much this; for every now and then it totters in its steps, and threatens going to grass, in a way different from what it might wish.
“About twenty miles,” thevaqueanomutters to himself, with a glance, cast inquiringly ahead. “It can’t be more than that to the river itself. Question is, whether I can make it anywheres near Assuncion. I’m not sure about this trail; evidently only a cattle run. It may lead me too much above or below. In any case,” he adds, “I must bring out near one of theguardias, so thick along the bank, and the soldiers of the post will ferry me across. From there I’ll have a good road to the town.”
So consoling himself, he keeps on; no longer paying much attention to the doubtful cattle track, but rather taking guidance from the sun. This going down is directly behind his back, and so tells him the due course east, as well as west; for it is eastward he wishes to go. Now, near the horizon, it casts an elongated shadow of himself and his animal, far to the front; and after this he rides, as though following in the footsteps of some giant on horseback!
The sun soon after setting, the shadow changes, veering round to his rear. But it is now made by the moon, which is also low in the sky; only before his face, instead of behind his back. For it would be the season of harvest—were such known in the Chaco—and the moon is at her full, lighting up thecampowith a clearness unknown to northern lands.
Were it otherwise, Rufino Valdez might have halted here, and been forced to stay in the Chaco for another night. But tempted by the bright moonlight, and the thought of his journey so near an end, he resolves differently; and once more pricking his tired, steed with spurs long since blood-clotted, he again forces it into a gallop.
But the pace is only for a short while sustained. Before going much further he feels his horse floundering between his legs; while a glance to the ground shows him he is riding through abiscachera!
Absorbed in thought—perhaps perfecting some wicked scheme—he had not noticed the burrow till now. Now he sees it—holes and heaps all around him—at the same time hearing the screeches of the owls, as the frightened birds fly up out of his path.
He is about to draw bridle, when the reins are suddenly jerked from his grasp—by his horse, which has gone headlong to the ground! At the same instant he hears a sound, like the cracking of a dead stick snapped crosswise. It is not that, but the shank of his horse, broken above the pastern joint! It is the last sound he hears then, or for some time after; he himself sustaining damage, though of a different kind—the dislocation of a shoulder-blade—that of the arm already injured—with a shock which deprives him of his senses.
Long lies he upon that moonlit plain, neither hearing the cries of the night birds nor seeing the great ratlike quadrupeds that, in their curiosity, come crowding close to, and go running around him!
And though consciousness at length returns, he remains in that same place till morning’s light—and for the whole of another day and night—leaving the spot, and upon it his broken-legged horse, himself to limp slowly away, leaning upon his guilty spear, as one wounded on a battle-field, but one who has been fighting for a bad cause.
He reaches Assuncion—though not till the third day after—and there gets his broken bones set. But for Gaspar Mendez, there may have been luck in that shoulder-blade being put out of joint.
Chapter Twenty Two.The Barometer-Tree.After passing thebiscachera, the trackers have not proceeded far, when Caspar again reins up with eyes lowered to the ground. The others seeing this, also bring their horses to a stand; then watch the gaucho, who is apparently engaged with a fresh inspection of the trail.“Have you found anything else?” asks Cypriano.“No,señorito. Instead, I’ve lost something.”“What?” inquire both, in a breath.“I don’t any longer see the tracks of that shod horse. I mean the big one we know nothing about. The pony’s are here, but as for the other, they’re missing.”All three now join in a search for them, riding slowly along the trail, and in different directions backward and forward. But after some minutes thus passed, their search proves fruitless; no shod hoof-print, save that of the pony, to be seen.“This accounts for it,” mutters Caspar, giving up the quest, and speaking as to himself.“Accounts for what?” demands Cypriano, who has overheard him.“The return tracks we saw on the other side of the camp ground. I mean the freshest of them, that went over the ford of the stream. Whoever rode that horse, whether red or white man, has parted from the Indians at their camping-place, no doubt after staying all night with them. Ha! there’s something at the back of all this; somebody behind Aguara and his Indians—that very somebody I’ve been guessing at. He—to a dead certainty.”The last sentences are not spoken aloud; for as yet he has not confided his suspicions about Francia and Valdez to his youthful comrades.“No matter about this shod horse and his back-track,” he continues, once more heading his own animal to the trail. “We’ve now only to do with those that have gone forward, and forward let us haste.”While speaking he strikes his ponderous spurs against his horse’s ribs, setting him into a canter, the others starting off at the same pace.For nearly an hour they continue this rate of speed, the conspicuous trail enabling them to travel rapidly and without interruption. It still carries them up the Pilcomayo, though not always along the river’s immediate bank. At intervals it touches the water’s edge, at others parting from it; the deflections due to “bluffs” which here and there impinge upon the stream, leaving no room for path between it and their bases.When nearing one of these, of greater elevation than common, Gaspar again draws his horse to a halt; though it cannot be the cliff which has caused him to do so. His eyes are not on it, but turned on a tree, which stands at some distance from the path they are pursuing, out upon the open plain. It is one of large size, and light green foliage, the leaves pinnate, bespeaking it of the orderleguminosae. It is in fact one of the numerous species ofmimosas, or sensitive plants, common on the plains and mountains of South America, and nowhere in greater number, or variety, than in the region of the Gran Chaco.Ludwig and Cypriano have, in the meantime, also drawn up; and turning towards the tree at which Caspar is gazing, they see its long slender branches covered with clusters of bright yellow flowers, these evidently the object of his attention. There is something about them that calls for his closer scrutiny; since after a glance or two, he turns his horse’s head towards the tree, and rides on to it.Arrived under its branches, he raises his hand aloft, plucks off a spray of the flowers, and dismounting, proceeds to examine it with curious minuteness, as if a botanist endeavouring to determine its genus or species! But he has no thought of this; for he knows the tree well, knows it to possess certain strange properties, one of which has been his reason for riding up to it, and acting as he now does.The other two have also drawn near; and dismounting, hold their horses in hand while they watch him with wondering eyes. One of them cries out—“What now, Caspar? Why are you gathering those flowers?” It is Cypriano who speaks, impatiently adding, “Remember, our time is precious.”“True, master,” gravely responds the gaucho; “but however precious it is, we may soon have to employ it otherwise than in taking up a trail. If this tree tells truth, we’ll have enough on our hands to take care of ourselves, without thinking of Indians.”“What mean you?” both interrogated together.“Come hither,señoritos, and set your eyes on these flowers!”Thus requested they comply, leading their horses nearer to the tree.“Well?” exclaims Cypriano, “I see nothing in them; that is, nothing that strikes me as being strange.”“But I do,” says Ludwig, whose father had given him some instruction in the science of botany. “I observe that the corollas are well nigh closed, which they should not be at this hour of the day, if the tree is in a healthy condition. It’s theüinay; I know it well. We have passed several on the way as we started this morning, but I noticed none with the flowers thus shrivelled up.”“Stand still a while,” counsels Gaspar, “and watch them.”They do as desired, and see what greatly surprises them. At least Cypriano is surprised; for the young Paraguayan, unlike his half-German cousin, unobservant of Nature generally, has never given a thought to any of its particular phenomena; and that now presented to his gaze is one of the strangest. For while they stand watching theüinay, its flowers continue to close their corollas, the petals assuming a shrunk, withered appearance.The gaucho’s countenance seems to take its cue from them, growing graver as he stands contemplating the change.“Por Dios!” he at length exclaims, “if that tree be speaking truth, and I never knew of theüinaytelling lies, we’ll have a storm upon us within twenty minutes’ time; such a one as will sweep us out of our saddles, if we can’t get under shelter. Ay, sure it’s going to be either atemporalortormenta! And this is not the where to meet it. Here we’d be smothered in a minute, if not blown up into the sky. Stay! I think I know of a place near by, where we may take refuge before it’s down upon us. Quick,muchachos! Mount, and let us away from here. A moment lost, and it may be too late;vamonos!”Leaping back into their saddles, all three again go off in a gallop; no longer upon the Indian trail, but in a somewhat different direction, the gaucho guiding and leading.
After passing thebiscachera, the trackers have not proceeded far, when Caspar again reins up with eyes lowered to the ground. The others seeing this, also bring their horses to a stand; then watch the gaucho, who is apparently engaged with a fresh inspection of the trail.
“Have you found anything else?” asks Cypriano.
“No,señorito. Instead, I’ve lost something.”
“What?” inquire both, in a breath.
“I don’t any longer see the tracks of that shod horse. I mean the big one we know nothing about. The pony’s are here, but as for the other, they’re missing.”
All three now join in a search for them, riding slowly along the trail, and in different directions backward and forward. But after some minutes thus passed, their search proves fruitless; no shod hoof-print, save that of the pony, to be seen.
“This accounts for it,” mutters Caspar, giving up the quest, and speaking as to himself.
“Accounts for what?” demands Cypriano, who has overheard him.
“The return tracks we saw on the other side of the camp ground. I mean the freshest of them, that went over the ford of the stream. Whoever rode that horse, whether red or white man, has parted from the Indians at their camping-place, no doubt after staying all night with them. Ha! there’s something at the back of all this; somebody behind Aguara and his Indians—that very somebody I’ve been guessing at. He—to a dead certainty.”
The last sentences are not spoken aloud; for as yet he has not confided his suspicions about Francia and Valdez to his youthful comrades.
“No matter about this shod horse and his back-track,” he continues, once more heading his own animal to the trail. “We’ve now only to do with those that have gone forward, and forward let us haste.”
While speaking he strikes his ponderous spurs against his horse’s ribs, setting him into a canter, the others starting off at the same pace.
For nearly an hour they continue this rate of speed, the conspicuous trail enabling them to travel rapidly and without interruption. It still carries them up the Pilcomayo, though not always along the river’s immediate bank. At intervals it touches the water’s edge, at others parting from it; the deflections due to “bluffs” which here and there impinge upon the stream, leaving no room for path between it and their bases.
When nearing one of these, of greater elevation than common, Gaspar again draws his horse to a halt; though it cannot be the cliff which has caused him to do so. His eyes are not on it, but turned on a tree, which stands at some distance from the path they are pursuing, out upon the open plain. It is one of large size, and light green foliage, the leaves pinnate, bespeaking it of the orderleguminosae. It is in fact one of the numerous species ofmimosas, or sensitive plants, common on the plains and mountains of South America, and nowhere in greater number, or variety, than in the region of the Gran Chaco.
Ludwig and Cypriano have, in the meantime, also drawn up; and turning towards the tree at which Caspar is gazing, they see its long slender branches covered with clusters of bright yellow flowers, these evidently the object of his attention. There is something about them that calls for his closer scrutiny; since after a glance or two, he turns his horse’s head towards the tree, and rides on to it.
Arrived under its branches, he raises his hand aloft, plucks off a spray of the flowers, and dismounting, proceeds to examine it with curious minuteness, as if a botanist endeavouring to determine its genus or species! But he has no thought of this; for he knows the tree well, knows it to possess certain strange properties, one of which has been his reason for riding up to it, and acting as he now does.
The other two have also drawn near; and dismounting, hold their horses in hand while they watch him with wondering eyes. One of them cries out—
“What now, Caspar? Why are you gathering those flowers?” It is Cypriano who speaks, impatiently adding, “Remember, our time is precious.”
“True, master,” gravely responds the gaucho; “but however precious it is, we may soon have to employ it otherwise than in taking up a trail. If this tree tells truth, we’ll have enough on our hands to take care of ourselves, without thinking of Indians.”
“What mean you?” both interrogated together.
“Come hither,señoritos, and set your eyes on these flowers!”
Thus requested they comply, leading their horses nearer to the tree.
“Well?” exclaims Cypriano, “I see nothing in them; that is, nothing that strikes me as being strange.”
“But I do,” says Ludwig, whose father had given him some instruction in the science of botany. “I observe that the corollas are well nigh closed, which they should not be at this hour of the day, if the tree is in a healthy condition. It’s theüinay; I know it well. We have passed several on the way as we started this morning, but I noticed none with the flowers thus shrivelled up.”
“Stand still a while,” counsels Gaspar, “and watch them.”
They do as desired, and see what greatly surprises them. At least Cypriano is surprised; for the young Paraguayan, unlike his half-German cousin, unobservant of Nature generally, has never given a thought to any of its particular phenomena; and that now presented to his gaze is one of the strangest. For while they stand watching theüinay, its flowers continue to close their corollas, the petals assuming a shrunk, withered appearance.
The gaucho’s countenance seems to take its cue from them, growing graver as he stands contemplating the change.
“Por Dios!” he at length exclaims, “if that tree be speaking truth, and I never knew of theüinaytelling lies, we’ll have a storm upon us within twenty minutes’ time; such a one as will sweep us out of our saddles, if we can’t get under shelter. Ay, sure it’s going to be either atemporalortormenta! And this is not the where to meet it. Here we’d be smothered in a minute, if not blown up into the sky. Stay! I think I know of a place near by, where we may take refuge before it’s down upon us. Quick,muchachos! Mount, and let us away from here. A moment lost, and it may be too late;vamonos!”
Leaping back into their saddles, all three again go off in a gallop; no longer upon the Indian trail, but in a somewhat different direction, the gaucho guiding and leading.
Chapter Twenty Three.The Captive Train.Just about the same time that the party of trackers had turned to take departure from the barometer-tree, a cavalcade of a very different kind, and composed of a greater number of individuals, is moving over the plain, some forty or fifty miles distant. It is the party being tracked; Aguara and his band of young braves on return to thetolderiaof their tribe; the one now become their permanent place of abode.More than one change has taken place in the Indian cohort since it passed over the same ground going downward. In number it is still the same; but one of them does not sit erect upon his horse; instead, lies bent across the animal’s back, like a sack of corn. There he is fast tied to keep him from tailing off, for he could do nothing to prevent this—being dead! He it was who came forth from thesumacgrove wounded by Halberger’s bullet, and the wound has proved fatal; this accounting for the pieces ofsiposseen at their camping-place.Another change in the composition of the party is, that the white man, Valdez, is no longer with it. Just as Gaspar had conjectured, from seeing the return tracks of his horse, he had parted company with the Indians at their first encampment, on the night after the murder. Another and very different individual, has taken his place at the head of the troop. The daughter of the murdered man who now rides by the side of the young Tovas chief!Though a captive, she is not bound. They have no fear of her attempting to escape; nor does she even think of it. Though ever so well mounted, she knows such an attempt would be idle, and on her diminutive roadster, which she still rides, utterly hopeless. Therefore, since the moment of being made captive, no thought of escaping by flight had even entered her mind.With her long yellow hair hanging dishevelled over her shoulders, her cheeks white as lilies, and an expression of utter woe in her eyes, she sits her saddle seemingly regardless of where she is going, or whether she fall off and get trampled under the hoofs of the horses coming behind. It alone, her pony might wander at will; but alongside Aguara’s horse it keeps pace with the latter, its meek, submissive look, seeming to tell of its being as much a prisoner as its mistress.Beyond the bereavement she has suffered by her father’s death—for she saw him struck down, and believes him to be dead—no ill-treatment has been offered her: not even insult. Instead, the young cacique has been making efforts to gain her good will! He pretends innocence of any intent to take her father’s life, laying it all on the shoulders of Valdez. Giving reasons too, not without some significance, and an air of probability. For was not thevaqueanoan old enemy of her father, while they were resident in Paraguay? The young Tovas chief has learnt this from Valdez himself, and does not fail to speak of it to his prisoner. Further, he pretends it was on account of this very crime thevaqueanohas committed, that he parted company with them—in short, fled, fearing punishment had he accompanied them back to their town.In this manner the wily Indian does all he can to mislead his captive, as they journey along together.Captive, he does not call her; in this also feigning pretence. He tells her that the reason for their not taking her direct to theestanciais, because of a party of Guaycurus, their enemies, being out on the war path, and it was to discover the whereabouts of these he and his followers were out scouting, when the sad mischance, as he flippantly terms it, arose. That having learnt where the hostile Indians were, he had needs return at once and report to the warriors of his tribe; thus the excuse for his not seeing her to her home. They could not leave her alone in the wilderness, and therefore of necessity she was going with them to their town; afterwards to be taken back to theestancia—to her mother. With such false tales, cunningly conceived, does he endeavour to beguile the ears of his captive.For all that they are not believed; scarcely listened to. She, to whom they are told, has reasons for discrediting them. Though but a child in years, Francesca Halberger is not childish in understanding. The strange experiences and perils through which she, and all related to her, had passed, have given her the discernment of a more mature age; and well comprehends she her present situation, with other misfortunes that have led to it. She is not ignorant of the young chief’s partiality for herself; more than once made manifest to her in signs unmistakable—by acts as well as words. Besides, what he is not aware of, she had overheard part of the speech which passed between him and thevaqueano, as the latter was entering thesumacgrove, to do that deed which has left her without a father. Instead, therefore, of Aguara’s words deceiving her into a false confidence, they but strengthen the feeling of repulsion she has all along had for him. Whether listening or not, she makes no reply to what he says, nor even deigns to look at him. Sitting listless, dejected, with her eyes habitually bent upon the ground, she rides on as one who has utterly abandoned herself to despair. Too sad, too terribly afflicted with what is past, she appears to have no thoughts about the future, no hopes. Or, if at intervals one arises in her mind, it rests not on him now by her side, but her father. For as yet she knows not that Naraguana is dead.If somewhat changed thepersonnelof the Indian troop, much more is it altered in the general aspect and behaviour of those who compose it—a very contrast to what was exhibited on their way downward. No longer mirthful, making the welkin ring with their jests and loud laughter; instead, there is silence upon their lips, sadness in their hearts, and gloom—even fear—on their faces. For they are carrying home one of their number a corpse, and dread telling the tale of it. What will the elders say, when they hear what has occurred? What do?The feeling among Aguara’s followers may be learnt from a dialogue, carried on between two of them who ride in the rear of the troop. They have been speaking of their paleface captive, and extolling her charms, one of them saying how much their young cacique is to be envied his good luck, in possession of such a charming creature.“After all, it may bring him into trouble,” suggests the more sage of the speakers, adding, “ay, and ourselves as well—every one of us.”“How that,” inquires the other.“Well; you know, if Naraguana had been living, he would never have allowed this.”“But Naraguana is not living, and who is to gainsay the will of Aguara? He’s now our chief, and can do as he likes with this captive girl, or any other. Can’t he?”“No; that he can’t. You forget the elders. Besides, you don’t seem to remember the strong friendship that existed between our old cacique and him thevaqueanohas killed. I’ve heard say that Naraguana, just before his death, in his last words, left a command we should all stand by the palefaced stranger, her father, and protect him and his against every enemy, as long as they remained in the Chaco. Strange protection we’ve given him! Instead, help to the man who has been his murderer! And now returning home, with his daughter a captive! What will our people think of all this? Some of them, I know, were as much the white man’s friend almost as Naraguana himself. Besides, they won’t like the old cacique’s dying injunction having been thus disregarded. I tell you, there’ll be trouble when we get back.”“No fear. Our young chief is too popular and powerful. He’ll not find any one to oppose his will; which, as I take it, is to make this little paleface his wife, and our queen. Well, I can’t help envying him; she’s such a sweet thing. But won’t the Tovas maidens go mad with jealousy! I know one—that’s Nacena—”The dialogue is interrupted by a shout heard from one who rides near the front of the troop. It is a cry as of alarm, and is so understood by all; at the same time all comprehending that the cause is something seen afar off.In an instant every individual of the party springs up from his sitting posture, and stands erect upon the back of his horse, gazing out over the plain. The corpse alone lies still; the captive girl also keeping her seat, to all seeming heedless of what has startled them, and caring not what new misfortune may be in store for her. Her cup of sorrow is already full, and she recks not if it run over.
Just about the same time that the party of trackers had turned to take departure from the barometer-tree, a cavalcade of a very different kind, and composed of a greater number of individuals, is moving over the plain, some forty or fifty miles distant. It is the party being tracked; Aguara and his band of young braves on return to thetolderiaof their tribe; the one now become their permanent place of abode.
More than one change has taken place in the Indian cohort since it passed over the same ground going downward. In number it is still the same; but one of them does not sit erect upon his horse; instead, lies bent across the animal’s back, like a sack of corn. There he is fast tied to keep him from tailing off, for he could do nothing to prevent this—being dead! He it was who came forth from thesumacgrove wounded by Halberger’s bullet, and the wound has proved fatal; this accounting for the pieces ofsiposseen at their camping-place.
Another change in the composition of the party is, that the white man, Valdez, is no longer with it. Just as Gaspar had conjectured, from seeing the return tracks of his horse, he had parted company with the Indians at their first encampment, on the night after the murder. Another and very different individual, has taken his place at the head of the troop. The daughter of the murdered man who now rides by the side of the young Tovas chief!
Though a captive, she is not bound. They have no fear of her attempting to escape; nor does she even think of it. Though ever so well mounted, she knows such an attempt would be idle, and on her diminutive roadster, which she still rides, utterly hopeless. Therefore, since the moment of being made captive, no thought of escaping by flight had even entered her mind.
With her long yellow hair hanging dishevelled over her shoulders, her cheeks white as lilies, and an expression of utter woe in her eyes, she sits her saddle seemingly regardless of where she is going, or whether she fall off and get trampled under the hoofs of the horses coming behind. It alone, her pony might wander at will; but alongside Aguara’s horse it keeps pace with the latter, its meek, submissive look, seeming to tell of its being as much a prisoner as its mistress.
Beyond the bereavement she has suffered by her father’s death—for she saw him struck down, and believes him to be dead—no ill-treatment has been offered her: not even insult. Instead, the young cacique has been making efforts to gain her good will! He pretends innocence of any intent to take her father’s life, laying it all on the shoulders of Valdez. Giving reasons too, not without some significance, and an air of probability. For was not thevaqueanoan old enemy of her father, while they were resident in Paraguay? The young Tovas chief has learnt this from Valdez himself, and does not fail to speak of it to his prisoner. Further, he pretends it was on account of this very crime thevaqueanohas committed, that he parted company with them—in short, fled, fearing punishment had he accompanied them back to their town.
In this manner the wily Indian does all he can to mislead his captive, as they journey along together.
Captive, he does not call her; in this also feigning pretence. He tells her that the reason for their not taking her direct to theestanciais, because of a party of Guaycurus, their enemies, being out on the war path, and it was to discover the whereabouts of these he and his followers were out scouting, when the sad mischance, as he flippantly terms it, arose. That having learnt where the hostile Indians were, he had needs return at once and report to the warriors of his tribe; thus the excuse for his not seeing her to her home. They could not leave her alone in the wilderness, and therefore of necessity she was going with them to their town; afterwards to be taken back to theestancia—to her mother. With such false tales, cunningly conceived, does he endeavour to beguile the ears of his captive.
For all that they are not believed; scarcely listened to. She, to whom they are told, has reasons for discrediting them. Though but a child in years, Francesca Halberger is not childish in understanding. The strange experiences and perils through which she, and all related to her, had passed, have given her the discernment of a more mature age; and well comprehends she her present situation, with other misfortunes that have led to it. She is not ignorant of the young chief’s partiality for herself; more than once made manifest to her in signs unmistakable—by acts as well as words. Besides, what he is not aware of, she had overheard part of the speech which passed between him and thevaqueano, as the latter was entering thesumacgrove, to do that deed which has left her without a father. Instead, therefore, of Aguara’s words deceiving her into a false confidence, they but strengthen the feeling of repulsion she has all along had for him. Whether listening or not, she makes no reply to what he says, nor even deigns to look at him. Sitting listless, dejected, with her eyes habitually bent upon the ground, she rides on as one who has utterly abandoned herself to despair. Too sad, too terribly afflicted with what is past, she appears to have no thoughts about the future, no hopes. Or, if at intervals one arises in her mind, it rests not on him now by her side, but her father. For as yet she knows not that Naraguana is dead.
If somewhat changed thepersonnelof the Indian troop, much more is it altered in the general aspect and behaviour of those who compose it—a very contrast to what was exhibited on their way downward. No longer mirthful, making the welkin ring with their jests and loud laughter; instead, there is silence upon their lips, sadness in their hearts, and gloom—even fear—on their faces. For they are carrying home one of their number a corpse, and dread telling the tale of it. What will the elders say, when they hear what has occurred? What do?
The feeling among Aguara’s followers may be learnt from a dialogue, carried on between two of them who ride in the rear of the troop. They have been speaking of their paleface captive, and extolling her charms, one of them saying how much their young cacique is to be envied his good luck, in possession of such a charming creature.
“After all, it may bring him into trouble,” suggests the more sage of the speakers, adding, “ay, and ourselves as well—every one of us.”
“How that,” inquires the other.
“Well; you know, if Naraguana had been living, he would never have allowed this.”
“But Naraguana is not living, and who is to gainsay the will of Aguara? He’s now our chief, and can do as he likes with this captive girl, or any other. Can’t he?”
“No; that he can’t. You forget the elders. Besides, you don’t seem to remember the strong friendship that existed between our old cacique and him thevaqueanohas killed. I’ve heard say that Naraguana, just before his death, in his last words, left a command we should all stand by the palefaced stranger, her father, and protect him and his against every enemy, as long as they remained in the Chaco. Strange protection we’ve given him! Instead, help to the man who has been his murderer! And now returning home, with his daughter a captive! What will our people think of all this? Some of them, I know, were as much the white man’s friend almost as Naraguana himself. Besides, they won’t like the old cacique’s dying injunction having been thus disregarded. I tell you, there’ll be trouble when we get back.”
“No fear. Our young chief is too popular and powerful. He’ll not find any one to oppose his will; which, as I take it, is to make this little paleface his wife, and our queen. Well, I can’t help envying him; she’s such a sweet thing. But won’t the Tovas maidens go mad with jealousy! I know one—that’s Nacena—”
The dialogue is interrupted by a shout heard from one who rides near the front of the troop. It is a cry as of alarm, and is so understood by all; at the same time all comprehending that the cause is something seen afar off.
In an instant every individual of the party springs up from his sitting posture, and stands erect upon the back of his horse, gazing out over the plain. The corpse alone lies still; the captive girl also keeping her seat, to all seeming heedless of what has startled them, and caring not what new misfortune may be in store for her. Her cup of sorrow is already full, and she recks not if it run over.