Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.A Silent Fellow-Traveller.Another sun is rising over the Chaco, and its rays, red as the reflection from a fire, begin to glitter through the stems of the palm-trees that grow in scattered topes upon the plains bordering the Pilcomayo. But ere the bright orb has mounted above their crowns, two horsemen are seen to ride out of thesumacgrove, in which Ludwig Halberger vainly endeavoured to conceal himself from the assassin Valdez and his savage confederates.It is not where any of these entered the thicket that the horsemen are coming out, but at a point some half-mile further up the branch stream, and on its higher bank, where it reaches the general level of the upper plain. Here thesumactrees cover the whole slope from the water’s edge to the crest of the bordering ridge, on this ending abruptly. Though they stand thinly, and there is room enough for two horsemen to ride abreast, these are not doing so, but one ahead, and leading the other’s horse by a raw-hide rope attached to the bitt ring.In this manner they have ascended the slope, and have now the great plain before them; treeless, save here and there a tope of palms or a scattering of willows around some spot where there is water; but the taller timber is behind them, and soon as they arrive at its edge, he riding ahead reins up his horse, the other stopping at the same time.There is still a belt of bushes between them and the open ground, of stunted growth, but high enough to hinder their view. To see over them, the leading horseman stands up in his stirrups, and looks out upon the plain, his glances directed all around it. These, earnestly interrogative, tell of apprehension, as of an enemy he might expect to be there, in short, making a reconnaissance to see if the “coast be clear.”That he judges it so is evinced by his settling back into his saddle, and moving on across the belt of bushes; but again, on the skirt of this and before issuing out of it, he draws bridle, and once more makes a survey of the plain.By this time, the sun having mounted higher in the heavens, shines full upon his face, showing it of dark complexion, darker from the apprehension now clouding it; but of honest cast, and one which would otherwise be cheerful, since it is the face of Caspar, the gaucho.Who the other is cannot be easily told, even with the bright sun beaming upon him; for his hat, broad-brimmed, is slouched over his forehead, concealing most part of his countenance. The head itself, oddly, almost comically, inclined to one side, droops down till the chin nigh touches his breast. Moreover, an ample cloak, which covers him from neck to ankles, renders his figure as unrecognisable as his face. With his horse following that of the gaucho, who leads him at long halter’s reach, he, too, has halted in the outer selvedge of the scrub; still maintaining the same relative position to the other as when they rode out from thesumacs, and without speaking word or making gesture. In fact, he stirs not at all, except such motion as is due to the movement of his horse; but beyond that he neither raises head nor hand, not even to guide the animal, leaving it to be lead unresistingly.Were the gaucho of warlike habits, and accustomed to making predatory expeditions, he might be taken as returning from one with a captive, whom he is conducting to some safe place of imprisonment. For just like this his silent companion appears, either fast strapped to his own saddle, or who, conquered and completely subdued, has resigned all thoughts of resistance and hopes of escape. But Caspar is essentially a man of peace, which makes it improbable that he, behind, is his prisoner.Whatever the relationship between them, the gaucho for the present pays no attention to the other horseman, neither speaks to nor turns his eye toward him; for these are now all upon the plain, scanning it from side to side, and all round as far as he can command view of it. He is not himself silent, however, though the words to which he gives utterance are spoken in a low tone, and by way of soliloquy, thus:—“’Twill never do to go back by the river’s bank. Whoever the devils that have done this dastardly thing, they may be still prowling about, and to meet them would be for me to get served the same as they’ve served him, that’s sure; so I’d best take another route, though it be a bit round the corner. Let me see. I think I know a way that should lead tolerably straight to the estancia without touching the river or going anywheres near it. I mustn’t even travel within sight of it. If the Tovas have had any hand in this ugly business—and, by the Virgin, I believe they have, however hard it is to think so—some of them may still be near, and possibly a party gone back to their oldtolderia. I’ll have to give that a wide berth anyhow; so to get across this open stretch without being seen, if there be anyone on it to see me, will need manoeuvring. As it is, there don’t appear to be a soul, that’s so far satisfactory.”Again he sweeps the grassy expanse with searching glance, his face brightening up as he observes a flock of ostriches on one side, on the other a herd of deer—the birds stalking leisurely along, the beasts tranquilly browsing. Were there Indians upon the plain, it would not be so. Instead, either one or the other would show excitement. The behaviour of the dumb creatures imparting to him a certain feeling of confidence, he says, continuing the soliloquy:—“I think I may venture it. Nay, I must; and there’s no help for’t. We have to get home somehow—and soon. Ah! the Señora! poor lady! What will she be thinking by this time? And what when we get back?Valga me Dios! I don’t know how I shall ever be able to break it to her, or in what way! It will sure drive her out of her senses, and not much wonder, either. To lose one of them were enough, but both, and— Well, no use dwelling on it now; besides, there’s no time to be lost. I must start off at once; and, maybe, as I’m riding on, I’ll think of some plan to communicate the sad news to the Señora, without giving her too sudden a shock.Pobrecita!”At the pitying exclamation he gives a last interrogative glance over the plain; then, with a word to his horse, and a touch of the spur, he moves out into the open, and on; the other animal following, as before, its rider maintaining the same distance and preserving the self-same attitude, silent and gestureless as ever!

Another sun is rising over the Chaco, and its rays, red as the reflection from a fire, begin to glitter through the stems of the palm-trees that grow in scattered topes upon the plains bordering the Pilcomayo. But ere the bright orb has mounted above their crowns, two horsemen are seen to ride out of thesumacgrove, in which Ludwig Halberger vainly endeavoured to conceal himself from the assassin Valdez and his savage confederates.

It is not where any of these entered the thicket that the horsemen are coming out, but at a point some half-mile further up the branch stream, and on its higher bank, where it reaches the general level of the upper plain. Here thesumactrees cover the whole slope from the water’s edge to the crest of the bordering ridge, on this ending abruptly. Though they stand thinly, and there is room enough for two horsemen to ride abreast, these are not doing so, but one ahead, and leading the other’s horse by a raw-hide rope attached to the bitt ring.

In this manner they have ascended the slope, and have now the great plain before them; treeless, save here and there a tope of palms or a scattering of willows around some spot where there is water; but the taller timber is behind them, and soon as they arrive at its edge, he riding ahead reins up his horse, the other stopping at the same time.

There is still a belt of bushes between them and the open ground, of stunted growth, but high enough to hinder their view. To see over them, the leading horseman stands up in his stirrups, and looks out upon the plain, his glances directed all around it. These, earnestly interrogative, tell of apprehension, as of an enemy he might expect to be there, in short, making a reconnaissance to see if the “coast be clear.”

That he judges it so is evinced by his settling back into his saddle, and moving on across the belt of bushes; but again, on the skirt of this and before issuing out of it, he draws bridle, and once more makes a survey of the plain.

By this time, the sun having mounted higher in the heavens, shines full upon his face, showing it of dark complexion, darker from the apprehension now clouding it; but of honest cast, and one which would otherwise be cheerful, since it is the face of Caspar, the gaucho.

Who the other is cannot be easily told, even with the bright sun beaming upon him; for his hat, broad-brimmed, is slouched over his forehead, concealing most part of his countenance. The head itself, oddly, almost comically, inclined to one side, droops down till the chin nigh touches his breast. Moreover, an ample cloak, which covers him from neck to ankles, renders his figure as unrecognisable as his face. With his horse following that of the gaucho, who leads him at long halter’s reach, he, too, has halted in the outer selvedge of the scrub; still maintaining the same relative position to the other as when they rode out from thesumacs, and without speaking word or making gesture. In fact, he stirs not at all, except such motion as is due to the movement of his horse; but beyond that he neither raises head nor hand, not even to guide the animal, leaving it to be lead unresistingly.

Were the gaucho of warlike habits, and accustomed to making predatory expeditions, he might be taken as returning from one with a captive, whom he is conducting to some safe place of imprisonment. For just like this his silent companion appears, either fast strapped to his own saddle, or who, conquered and completely subdued, has resigned all thoughts of resistance and hopes of escape. But Caspar is essentially a man of peace, which makes it improbable that he, behind, is his prisoner.

Whatever the relationship between them, the gaucho for the present pays no attention to the other horseman, neither speaks to nor turns his eye toward him; for these are now all upon the plain, scanning it from side to side, and all round as far as he can command view of it. He is not himself silent, however, though the words to which he gives utterance are spoken in a low tone, and by way of soliloquy, thus:—

“’Twill never do to go back by the river’s bank. Whoever the devils that have done this dastardly thing, they may be still prowling about, and to meet them would be for me to get served the same as they’ve served him, that’s sure; so I’d best take another route, though it be a bit round the corner. Let me see. I think I know a way that should lead tolerably straight to the estancia without touching the river or going anywheres near it. I mustn’t even travel within sight of it. If the Tovas have had any hand in this ugly business—and, by the Virgin, I believe they have, however hard it is to think so—some of them may still be near, and possibly a party gone back to their oldtolderia. I’ll have to give that a wide berth anyhow; so to get across this open stretch without being seen, if there be anyone on it to see me, will need manoeuvring. As it is, there don’t appear to be a soul, that’s so far satisfactory.”

Again he sweeps the grassy expanse with searching glance, his face brightening up as he observes a flock of ostriches on one side, on the other a herd of deer—the birds stalking leisurely along, the beasts tranquilly browsing. Were there Indians upon the plain, it would not be so. Instead, either one or the other would show excitement. The behaviour of the dumb creatures imparting to him a certain feeling of confidence, he says, continuing the soliloquy:—

“I think I may venture it. Nay, I must; and there’s no help for’t. We have to get home somehow—and soon. Ah! the Señora! poor lady! What will she be thinking by this time? And what when we get back?Valga me Dios! I don’t know how I shall ever be able to break it to her, or in what way! It will sure drive her out of her senses, and not much wonder, either. To lose one of them were enough, but both, and— Well, no use dwelling on it now; besides, there’s no time to be lost. I must start off at once; and, maybe, as I’m riding on, I’ll think of some plan to communicate the sad news to the Señora, without giving her too sudden a shock.Pobrecita!”

At the pitying exclamation he gives a last interrogative glance over the plain; then, with a word to his horse, and a touch of the spur, he moves out into the open, and on; the other animal following, as before, its rider maintaining the same distance and preserving the self-same attitude, silent and gestureless as ever!

Chapter Twelve.Skulking Back.While the gaucho and his silent companion were still in halt by the edge of thesumacwood, another horseman could be seen approaching the place, but on the opposite side of the stream, riding direct down to the ford. Descried at any distance, his garb, with the caparison of his horse—the full gaucho panoply of bitted bridle, breast-plate,recado, andcaronilla—would tell he is not an Indian. Nor is he; since this third traveller, so early on the road, is Rufino Valdez. As commissioner to the Tovas tribe, he has executed the commission with which he was entrusted, with something besides; and is now on return to make report to his master, El Supremo, leaving the latter to take such other steps as may deem desirable.Thevaqueanohas passed the preceding night with the Indians at their camp, leaving it long before daybreak, though Aguara, for certain reasons, very much wished him to return with them to their town, and proposed it. A proposal, for reasons of his own, the cunning Paraguayan declined, giving excuses that but ill satisfied the young cacique, and which he rather reluctantly accepted. He could not, however, well refuse to let Valdez go his way. The man was not a prisoner moreover, his promise to be soon back, as the bearer of rich presents, was an argument irresistible; and influenced by this, more than aught else, Aguara gave him permission to depart.The young chief’s reasons for wishing to detain him were of a kind altogether personal. Much as he likes the captive he is carrying with him, he would rather she had been made captive by other means, and in a less violent manner. And he is now returning to his tribe, not so triumphantly, but with some apprehension as to how he will be received by the elders. What will they say when the truth is told them,—all the details of the red tragedy just enacted? He would lay the blame, where most part of it properly belongs, on the shoulders of the Paraguayan, and, indeed, intends doing so. But he would rather have the latter with him to meet the storm, should there be such, by explaining in his own way, why he killed the other white man. For Valdez had already said something to them of an old hostility between himself and the hunter-naturalist, knowing that the Tovas, as well as other Chaco Indians, acknowledge the rights of thevendetta.But just for the reason Aguara desires to have him along with him, is thevaqueanoinclined to die opposite course; in truth, determined upon it. Not for the world would he now return to the Tovas town. He has too much intelligence for that, or too great regard for his safety—his very life, which he believes, and with good cause, would be more than risked, were he again to show himself among a people whose hospitality he has so outraged. For he knows he as done this, and that there will surely be that storm of which the young cacique is apprehensive—a very tempest of indignation among the elders and friends of the deceased Naraguana, when they hear of the fate which has befallen the harmless stranger, so long living under their late chiefs protection. Therefore, notwithstanding the many promises he has made, not the slightest thought of performing any of them, or even going back on that trail, has Rufino Valdez. Instead, as he rides down the ford of the stream he is thinking to himself, it will be the last time he will have to wade across it, gleeful at the thought of having so well succeeded in what brought him over it at all. Pondering on something besides, another deed of infamy yet to be done, but for which he will not have to come so far up the Pilcomayo.In spite of his self-gratulation, and the gleams of a joy almost Satanic, which now and then light up his dark sinister countenance, he is not without some apprehensions; this is made manifest by his behaviour as he rides along. Although making what haste he can, he does not rush on in a reckless or careless manner. On the contrary, with due caution, at every turn of the path, stopping and making survey of each new reach before entering upon it. This he did, as the ford opened to his view, keeping under cover of the bushes, till assured there was no one there; then, striking out into the open ground, and riding rapidly for it. And while wading across the stream, his eyes are not upon the water, but sweeping the bank up and down with glances of keen scrutiny.As he sees no one there, nor the sign of anyone having been—for it is not yet daylight, and too dark for him to note the tracks of Gaspar’s horse—he says with a satisfied air, “They’re not likely to be coming after the missing pair at so early an hour. Besides, it’s too soon. They’ll hardly be setting them down as lost till late last night, and so couldn’t have tracked them on here yet.”Riding up out of the water, he once more draws rein by its edge, and sits regarding thesumacgrove with an expression in his eyes strangely repulsive.“I’ve half a mind to go up in there,” he mutters, “and see how things stand. I wasn’t altogether satisfied with the way we left them, and there’s just a possibility he may be still alive. The girl gave so much trouble in getting them parted, I couldn’t be quite sure of having killed him outright. If not, he might manage to crawl away, or they coming after in search of him—Carrai! I’ll make sure now. It can only delay me a matter of ten minutes, and,” he adds glancing up at the blade of his spear, “if need be, another thrust of this.”Soon as forming his devilish resolve, the assassin gives his horse a prick of the spur, and passes on towards thesumacgrove, entering at the same place as before, like a tiger skulking back to the quarry it has killed, and been chased away from.Once inside the thicket, he proceeds along thetapirpath, groping his way in the darkness. But he remembers it well, as well he may; and without going astray arrives at a spot he has still better reason to recall; that where, but a little more than twelve hours before, he supposes himself to have committed murder! Delayed along the narrow tortuous track, some time has elapsed since his entering among thesumacs. Only a short while, but long enough to give him a clearer light, for the day has meanwhile dawned, and the place is less shadowed, for it is an open spot where the sanguinary struggle took place.It is sufficiently clear for him, without dismounting, to distinguish objects on the ground, and note, which at a glance he does, that one he expected to see is not to be seen. No murdered man there; no body, living or dead!

While the gaucho and his silent companion were still in halt by the edge of thesumacwood, another horseman could be seen approaching the place, but on the opposite side of the stream, riding direct down to the ford. Descried at any distance, his garb, with the caparison of his horse—the full gaucho panoply of bitted bridle, breast-plate,recado, andcaronilla—would tell he is not an Indian. Nor is he; since this third traveller, so early on the road, is Rufino Valdez. As commissioner to the Tovas tribe, he has executed the commission with which he was entrusted, with something besides; and is now on return to make report to his master, El Supremo, leaving the latter to take such other steps as may deem desirable.

Thevaqueanohas passed the preceding night with the Indians at their camp, leaving it long before daybreak, though Aguara, for certain reasons, very much wished him to return with them to their town, and proposed it. A proposal, for reasons of his own, the cunning Paraguayan declined, giving excuses that but ill satisfied the young cacique, and which he rather reluctantly accepted. He could not, however, well refuse to let Valdez go his way. The man was not a prisoner moreover, his promise to be soon back, as the bearer of rich presents, was an argument irresistible; and influenced by this, more than aught else, Aguara gave him permission to depart.

The young chief’s reasons for wishing to detain him were of a kind altogether personal. Much as he likes the captive he is carrying with him, he would rather she had been made captive by other means, and in a less violent manner. And he is now returning to his tribe, not so triumphantly, but with some apprehension as to how he will be received by the elders. What will they say when the truth is told them,—all the details of the red tragedy just enacted? He would lay the blame, where most part of it properly belongs, on the shoulders of the Paraguayan, and, indeed, intends doing so. But he would rather have the latter with him to meet the storm, should there be such, by explaining in his own way, why he killed the other white man. For Valdez had already said something to them of an old hostility between himself and the hunter-naturalist, knowing that the Tovas, as well as other Chaco Indians, acknowledge the rights of thevendetta.

But just for the reason Aguara desires to have him along with him, is thevaqueanoinclined to die opposite course; in truth, determined upon it. Not for the world would he now return to the Tovas town. He has too much intelligence for that, or too great regard for his safety—his very life, which he believes, and with good cause, would be more than risked, were he again to show himself among a people whose hospitality he has so outraged. For he knows he as done this, and that there will surely be that storm of which the young cacique is apprehensive—a very tempest of indignation among the elders and friends of the deceased Naraguana, when they hear of the fate which has befallen the harmless stranger, so long living under their late chiefs protection. Therefore, notwithstanding the many promises he has made, not the slightest thought of performing any of them, or even going back on that trail, has Rufino Valdez. Instead, as he rides down the ford of the stream he is thinking to himself, it will be the last time he will have to wade across it, gleeful at the thought of having so well succeeded in what brought him over it at all. Pondering on something besides, another deed of infamy yet to be done, but for which he will not have to come so far up the Pilcomayo.

In spite of his self-gratulation, and the gleams of a joy almost Satanic, which now and then light up his dark sinister countenance, he is not without some apprehensions; this is made manifest by his behaviour as he rides along. Although making what haste he can, he does not rush on in a reckless or careless manner. On the contrary, with due caution, at every turn of the path, stopping and making survey of each new reach before entering upon it. This he did, as the ford opened to his view, keeping under cover of the bushes, till assured there was no one there; then, striking out into the open ground, and riding rapidly for it. And while wading across the stream, his eyes are not upon the water, but sweeping the bank up and down with glances of keen scrutiny.

As he sees no one there, nor the sign of anyone having been—for it is not yet daylight, and too dark for him to note the tracks of Gaspar’s horse—he says with a satisfied air, “They’re not likely to be coming after the missing pair at so early an hour. Besides, it’s too soon. They’ll hardly be setting them down as lost till late last night, and so couldn’t have tracked them on here yet.”

Riding up out of the water, he once more draws rein by its edge, and sits regarding thesumacgrove with an expression in his eyes strangely repulsive.

“I’ve half a mind to go up in there,” he mutters, “and see how things stand. I wasn’t altogether satisfied with the way we left them, and there’s just a possibility he may be still alive. The girl gave so much trouble in getting them parted, I couldn’t be quite sure of having killed him outright. If not, he might manage to crawl away, or they coming after in search of him—Carrai! I’ll make sure now. It can only delay me a matter of ten minutes, and,” he adds glancing up at the blade of his spear, “if need be, another thrust of this.”

Soon as forming his devilish resolve, the assassin gives his horse a prick of the spur, and passes on towards thesumacgrove, entering at the same place as before, like a tiger skulking back to the quarry it has killed, and been chased away from.

Once inside the thicket, he proceeds along thetapirpath, groping his way in the darkness. But he remembers it well, as well he may; and without going astray arrives at a spot he has still better reason to recall; that where, but a little more than twelve hours before, he supposes himself to have committed murder! Delayed along the narrow tortuous track, some time has elapsed since his entering among thesumacs. Only a short while, but long enough to give him a clearer light, for the day has meanwhile dawned, and the place is less shadowed, for it is an open spot where the sanguinary struggle took place.

It is sufficiently clear for him, without dismounting, to distinguish objects on the ground, and note, which at a glance he does, that one he expected to see is not to be seen. No murdered man there; no body, living or dead!

Chapter Thirteen.A Party not to be pursued.For some seconds, Rufino Valdez is in a state of semi-bewilderment, from his lips proceeding exclamations that tell of surprise, but more chagrin. Something of weird terror, too, in the expression upon his sallow, cadaverous face, as the grey dawn dimly lights it up.“Mil demonios!” he mutters, gazing distractedly on the ground. “What does this mean? Is it possible thegringo’sgot away? Possible? Ay, certain. And his animal, too! Yes, I remember we left that, fools as we were, in our furious haste. It’s all clear, and, as I half anticipated, he’s been able to climb on the horse, and’s off home! There by this time, like enough.”With this double adjuration, he resolves upon dismounting, to make better inspection of the place, and, if possible, assure himself whether his victim has really survived the murderous attack. But just as he has drawn one foot out of the stirrup and is balancing on the other, a sound reaches his ear, causing him to reseat himself in the saddle, and sit listening. Only a slight noise it was, but one in that place of peculiar significance, being the hoof-stroke of a horse.“Good!” he ejaculates in a whisper, “it must be his.”Hearkening a little longer, he hears the sound again, apparently further off, and as his practised ear tells him, the distance increasing.“It must be his horse,” he reiterates, still continuing to listen. “And who but he on the animal’s back? Going off? Yes; slowly enough. No wonder at that. Ha! he’s come to a halt. What’s the best thing for me to do?”He sits silently considering, but only for a few seconds; then glancing around the glade, in which yester eve he had shed innocent blood, at the same time losing some of his own, he sees another break among the bushes, where thetapirpath goes out again. Faint as the light still is, it shows him some horse-tracks, apparently quite fresh, leading off that way.He stays not for more, but again plying the spur, re-enters the thicket, not to go back to the ford, but on in the opposite direction. Thetapirpath takes him up an acclivity, from the stream’s edge to the level of the higher plain, and against it he urges his horse to as much speed as the nature of the ground will permit. He has thrown away caution now, and presses forward without fear, expecting soon to see a man on horseback, but so badly crippled as to be easily overtaken, and as easily overcome.What he does see, on reaching the summit of the slope, is something very different—two horses instead of one, with a man upon the back of each! And though one may be wounded and disabled, as he knows him to be, the other is not so, as he can well see. Instead, a man in full health, strength, and vigour, one Rufino Valdez fears as much as hates, though hating him with his whole heart. For it is Gaspar, the gaucho, once his rival in the affections of a Paraguayan girl, and successful in gaining them.That thevaqueano’sfear now predominates over his antipathy is evident from his behaviour. Instead of dashing on after to overtake the horsemen, who, with backs towards him, are slowly retiring, he shows only a desire to shun them. True, there would be two to one, and he has himself but a single arm available—his left, broken and bandaged, being now in a sling. But then only one of the two would be likely to stand against him, the other being too far gone for light. Indeed, Halberger—for Valdez naturally supposes it to be he—sits drooped in his saddle, as though he had difficulty in keeping to it. Not that he has any idea of attacking them does thevaqueanotake note of this, nor has he the slightest thought of attempting to overtake them. Even knew he that the wounded man were about to drop dead, he knows the other would be more than his match, with both his own arms sound and at their best, for they have been already locked in deadly strife with those of the gaucho, who could have taken his life, but generously forebore. Not for the world would Rufino Valdez again engage in single combat with Caspar Mendez, and soon as setting eyes on the latter he draws bridle so abruptly that his horse starts back as if he had trodden upon a rattlesnake.Quieting the animal with some whispered words, he places himself behind a thick bush, and there stays all of a tremble, the only thing stedfast about him being his gaze, fixed upon the forms of the departing travellers. So carefully does he screen himself, that from the front nothing is visible to indicate the presence of anyone there, save the point of a spear, with dry blood upon the blade, projecting above the bushes, and just touching the fronds of a palm-tree, its ensanguined hue in vivid contrast with the green of the leaves, as guilt and death in the midst of innocence and life!Not till they have passed almost out of his sight, their heads gradually going down behind the culms of the tall pampas grass, does Rufino Valdez breathe freely. Then his nerves becoming braced by the anger which burns within—a fierce rage, from the old hatred of jealousy, interrupted by this new and bitter disappointment, the thwarting of a scheme, so far successful, but still only half accomplished—he gives utterance to a string of blasphemous anathemas, with threats, in correspondence.“Carajo!” he cries, winding up with the mildest of his profane exclamations. “Ride on, señores, and get soon home! While there, be happy as you best may. Ha, ha! there won’t be much merriment in that nest now, with the young chick out of it—pet bird of the flock; nor long before the whole brood be called upon to forsake it. Soon as I can get to Assuncion and back with a dozen of ourquarteleros, ah! won’t there be a wiping out of old scores then? If that young fool, Naraguana’s son, hadn’t shown so chicken-hearted, I might have settled them now; gone home with captives, too, instead of empty-handed. Well, it won’t be so long to wait. Let me see. Three days will take me to Assuncion—less if this animal under me wasn’t so near worn out; three more to return with the troop. Say a week in all; at the end of which, if there be a man named Caspar Mendez in the land of the living, it won’t be he whose head I see out yonder. That will be off his shoulders, or if on them only to help hold in its place the loop-end of mylazo. But I must make haste. For what if Halberger have recognised me? I don’t think he did or could; ’twas too dark. If he have, what—ay, what? Of course they’ll know that wasn’t likely to be the last of it, and that there’s something more to come. They’d be simpletons not to think so; and thinking it, still greater fools if they don’t take some steps to flee away from this new roost they’ve been perching upon. But whither can they? The young Tovas chief is compromised with them—dead declared as their enemy so long as he keeps that pretty creature captive in his toldo; and there are others of the tribe will stand by me, I know. The glass beads and other glistening baubles will secure the young, while a few golden onzas skilfully distributed will do the same for thesagamores. No fear then, no failure yet! With the Tovas on my side, there isn’t a spot in the Chaco to shelter them. So,caballeros! you can keep on. In a week from this time, I hope to hold an interview with you, less distant and more satisfactory to myself.”After delivering this quaint rigmarole, he sits watching them till their heads finally sink below the sea of grass, the rheas feathers in Caspar’s high crowned hat being the last to disappear, as it were waving back defiance and to the death!Soon as they are out of sight, and he no longer fears an encounter with his old enemy, Valdez turns to the consideration of some other things which have appeared strange to him. At first, why they are riding so slowly, for as long as seen they were proceeding in a walking-gait rarely witnessed upon the pampas, and never where the horseman is a gaucho; for he gallops if it were but to the stream, within a stone’s throw of his solitary cabin, to fetch a jar of water!“Nothing in that,” he mutters, “now I come to think of it. Only natural they should be going at snail’s pace.Carrai! the wonder is thegringobeing able for even that, or go at all. I thought I’d given him hisquietus, for surely I sent my spear right through his ribs! It must have struck button, or buckle, or something, and glinted off. Mad fool of me, when I had him down, not to make sure of my work! Well, it’s no use blubbering about it now. Next time I’ll take better care how the thing’s done.”After a short pause, he resumes his strain of interrogative conjecture now on another matter, which has also struck him as being strange.“Why are they going off that way, I wonder? It isn’t their direct route homeward, surely? I don’t know the exact spot where thegringohas established himself; but didn’t Aguara say the nearest way to it is along the river’s bank, down to their oldtolderia? If so, certainly they’re making a round about. Ha! I fancy I know the reason; natural, too, as the other. The Señor Ludwig must have known they were Tovas who attacked him, and under the belief that they’ve gone on to their former place of abode, dreads a second encounter with them. No wonder he should, having found them such treacherous allies—enemies instead of friends. Ha, ha, ha! won’t that puzzle him? Of course, he hasn’t yet heard of Naraguana’s death—couldn’t—they all said so. Well, it’s a bit of good luck for me their going that round. My road lies direct down the river, and now I may proceed upon it without fear of being spied by them. That would never do just yet. They shall have sight of me soon enough—sooner than they’ll like it. And this reminds me I mustn’t waste any more time here; it’s too precious. Now off, and home to El Supremo, who’ll jump with very joy at the news I have for him.”Giving his horse a touch of the spur, he heads him along the high bank, still keeping within the skirt of timber, and riding slowly through the tangle of obstructing bushes; but at length getting out upon the old trail, where it goes down to the ford, he turns along it, in the opposite direction, towards the desertedtolderia. And now, with nothing further to obstruct him, he plies the spur vigorously, and keeps on at full gallop, not looking ahead, however, but with eyes all the while scanning the plain to his left, apprehensively, as fearing there to see a tall black hat, with a bunch of ostrich feathers floating above it.

For some seconds, Rufino Valdez is in a state of semi-bewilderment, from his lips proceeding exclamations that tell of surprise, but more chagrin. Something of weird terror, too, in the expression upon his sallow, cadaverous face, as the grey dawn dimly lights it up.

“Mil demonios!” he mutters, gazing distractedly on the ground. “What does this mean? Is it possible thegringo’sgot away? Possible? Ay, certain. And his animal, too! Yes, I remember we left that, fools as we were, in our furious haste. It’s all clear, and, as I half anticipated, he’s been able to climb on the horse, and’s off home! There by this time, like enough.”

With this double adjuration, he resolves upon dismounting, to make better inspection of the place, and, if possible, assure himself whether his victim has really survived the murderous attack. But just as he has drawn one foot out of the stirrup and is balancing on the other, a sound reaches his ear, causing him to reseat himself in the saddle, and sit listening. Only a slight noise it was, but one in that place of peculiar significance, being the hoof-stroke of a horse.

“Good!” he ejaculates in a whisper, “it must be his.”

Hearkening a little longer, he hears the sound again, apparently further off, and as his practised ear tells him, the distance increasing.

“It must be his horse,” he reiterates, still continuing to listen. “And who but he on the animal’s back? Going off? Yes; slowly enough. No wonder at that. Ha! he’s come to a halt. What’s the best thing for me to do?”

He sits silently considering, but only for a few seconds; then glancing around the glade, in which yester eve he had shed innocent blood, at the same time losing some of his own, he sees another break among the bushes, where thetapirpath goes out again. Faint as the light still is, it shows him some horse-tracks, apparently quite fresh, leading off that way.

He stays not for more, but again plying the spur, re-enters the thicket, not to go back to the ford, but on in the opposite direction. Thetapirpath takes him up an acclivity, from the stream’s edge to the level of the higher plain, and against it he urges his horse to as much speed as the nature of the ground will permit. He has thrown away caution now, and presses forward without fear, expecting soon to see a man on horseback, but so badly crippled as to be easily overtaken, and as easily overcome.

What he does see, on reaching the summit of the slope, is something very different—two horses instead of one, with a man upon the back of each! And though one may be wounded and disabled, as he knows him to be, the other is not so, as he can well see. Instead, a man in full health, strength, and vigour, one Rufino Valdez fears as much as hates, though hating him with his whole heart. For it is Gaspar, the gaucho, once his rival in the affections of a Paraguayan girl, and successful in gaining them.

That thevaqueano’sfear now predominates over his antipathy is evident from his behaviour. Instead of dashing on after to overtake the horsemen, who, with backs towards him, are slowly retiring, he shows only a desire to shun them. True, there would be two to one, and he has himself but a single arm available—his left, broken and bandaged, being now in a sling. But then only one of the two would be likely to stand against him, the other being too far gone for light. Indeed, Halberger—for Valdez naturally supposes it to be he—sits drooped in his saddle, as though he had difficulty in keeping to it. Not that he has any idea of attacking them does thevaqueanotake note of this, nor has he the slightest thought of attempting to overtake them. Even knew he that the wounded man were about to drop dead, he knows the other would be more than his match, with both his own arms sound and at their best, for they have been already locked in deadly strife with those of the gaucho, who could have taken his life, but generously forebore. Not for the world would Rufino Valdez again engage in single combat with Caspar Mendez, and soon as setting eyes on the latter he draws bridle so abruptly that his horse starts back as if he had trodden upon a rattlesnake.

Quieting the animal with some whispered words, he places himself behind a thick bush, and there stays all of a tremble, the only thing stedfast about him being his gaze, fixed upon the forms of the departing travellers. So carefully does he screen himself, that from the front nothing is visible to indicate the presence of anyone there, save the point of a spear, with dry blood upon the blade, projecting above the bushes, and just touching the fronds of a palm-tree, its ensanguined hue in vivid contrast with the green of the leaves, as guilt and death in the midst of innocence and life!

Not till they have passed almost out of his sight, their heads gradually going down behind the culms of the tall pampas grass, does Rufino Valdez breathe freely. Then his nerves becoming braced by the anger which burns within—a fierce rage, from the old hatred of jealousy, interrupted by this new and bitter disappointment, the thwarting of a scheme, so far successful, but still only half accomplished—he gives utterance to a string of blasphemous anathemas, with threats, in correspondence.

“Carajo!” he cries, winding up with the mildest of his profane exclamations. “Ride on, señores, and get soon home! While there, be happy as you best may. Ha, ha! there won’t be much merriment in that nest now, with the young chick out of it—pet bird of the flock; nor long before the whole brood be called upon to forsake it. Soon as I can get to Assuncion and back with a dozen of ourquarteleros, ah! won’t there be a wiping out of old scores then? If that young fool, Naraguana’s son, hadn’t shown so chicken-hearted, I might have settled them now; gone home with captives, too, instead of empty-handed. Well, it won’t be so long to wait. Let me see. Three days will take me to Assuncion—less if this animal under me wasn’t so near worn out; three more to return with the troop. Say a week in all; at the end of which, if there be a man named Caspar Mendez in the land of the living, it won’t be he whose head I see out yonder. That will be off his shoulders, or if on them only to help hold in its place the loop-end of mylazo. But I must make haste. For what if Halberger have recognised me? I don’t think he did or could; ’twas too dark. If he have, what—ay, what? Of course they’ll know that wasn’t likely to be the last of it, and that there’s something more to come. They’d be simpletons not to think so; and thinking it, still greater fools if they don’t take some steps to flee away from this new roost they’ve been perching upon. But whither can they? The young Tovas chief is compromised with them—dead declared as their enemy so long as he keeps that pretty creature captive in his toldo; and there are others of the tribe will stand by me, I know. The glass beads and other glistening baubles will secure the young, while a few golden onzas skilfully distributed will do the same for thesagamores. No fear then, no failure yet! With the Tovas on my side, there isn’t a spot in the Chaco to shelter them. So,caballeros! you can keep on. In a week from this time, I hope to hold an interview with you, less distant and more satisfactory to myself.”

After delivering this quaint rigmarole, he sits watching them till their heads finally sink below the sea of grass, the rheas feathers in Caspar’s high crowned hat being the last to disappear, as it were waving back defiance and to the death!

Soon as they are out of sight, and he no longer fears an encounter with his old enemy, Valdez turns to the consideration of some other things which have appeared strange to him. At first, why they are riding so slowly, for as long as seen they were proceeding in a walking-gait rarely witnessed upon the pampas, and never where the horseman is a gaucho; for he gallops if it were but to the stream, within a stone’s throw of his solitary cabin, to fetch a jar of water!

“Nothing in that,” he mutters, “now I come to think of it. Only natural they should be going at snail’s pace.Carrai! the wonder is thegringobeing able for even that, or go at all. I thought I’d given him hisquietus, for surely I sent my spear right through his ribs! It must have struck button, or buckle, or something, and glinted off. Mad fool of me, when I had him down, not to make sure of my work! Well, it’s no use blubbering about it now. Next time I’ll take better care how the thing’s done.”

After a short pause, he resumes his strain of interrogative conjecture now on another matter, which has also struck him as being strange.

“Why are they going off that way, I wonder? It isn’t their direct route homeward, surely? I don’t know the exact spot where thegringohas established himself; but didn’t Aguara say the nearest way to it is along the river’s bank, down to their oldtolderia? If so, certainly they’re making a round about. Ha! I fancy I know the reason; natural, too, as the other. The Señor Ludwig must have known they were Tovas who attacked him, and under the belief that they’ve gone on to their former place of abode, dreads a second encounter with them. No wonder he should, having found them such treacherous allies—enemies instead of friends. Ha, ha, ha! won’t that puzzle him? Of course, he hasn’t yet heard of Naraguana’s death—couldn’t—they all said so. Well, it’s a bit of good luck for me their going that round. My road lies direct down the river, and now I may proceed upon it without fear of being spied by them. That would never do just yet. They shall have sight of me soon enough—sooner than they’ll like it. And this reminds me I mustn’t waste any more time here; it’s too precious. Now off, and home to El Supremo, who’ll jump with very joy at the news I have for him.”

Giving his horse a touch of the spur, he heads him along the high bank, still keeping within the skirt of timber, and riding slowly through the tangle of obstructing bushes; but at length getting out upon the old trail, where it goes down to the ford, he turns along it, in the opposite direction, towards the desertedtolderia. And now, with nothing further to obstruct him, he plies the spur vigorously, and keeps on at full gallop, not looking ahead, however, but with eyes all the while scanning the plain to his left, apprehensively, as fearing there to see a tall black hat, with a bunch of ostrich feathers floating above it.

Chapter Fourteen.Why come they not?A night of dread suspense has been passed at the estancia of Ludwig Halberger. No one there has thought of sleep. Even the dark-skinned domestics—faithful Guano Indians—touched with sympathy for the señora, their mistress, do not retire to rest. Instead, retainers all, outside the house as within, sit up throughout the night, taking part with her in the anxious vigil.As the hours drag wearily along, the keener become her apprehensions; that presentiment of the morning, which during all the day has never left her, now pressing upon her spirit with the weight of woe itself. She could scarce be sadder, or surer that some terrible mischance had happened to her husband and daughter, had she seen it with her own eyes. And were both to be brought back dead, ’twould be almost what she is anticipating.In vain her son Ludwig, an affectionate lad, essays to cheer her. Do his best to assign or invent reasons for their prolonged absence, he cannot chase the dark shadow from her brow, nor lift the load off her heart. And Cypriano, who dearly loves his aunt, has no more success. Indeed, less, since almost as much does he need cheering himself. For although Francesca’s fate is a thing of keen inquietude to the brother, it is yet of keener to the cousin. Love is the strongest of the affections.But youth, ever hopeful, hinders them from despairing; and despite their solicitude, they find words of comfort for her who hears them without being comforted.“Keep up heart, mother!” says Ludwig, feigning a cheerfulness he far from feels. “’Twill be all right yet, and we’ll see them home to-morrow morning—if not before. You know that father has often stayed out all night.”“Never alone,” she despondingly answers. “Never with Francesca. Only when Gaspar was along with him.”“Well, Gaspar’s with him now, no doubt; and that’ll make all safe. He’s sure to have found them. Don’t you think so, Cypriano?”“Oh! yes,” mechanically rejoins the cousin, in his heart far from thinking it so, but the reverse. “Wherever they’ve gone he’ll get upon their tracks; and as Gaspar can follow tracks, be they ever so slight, he’ll have no difficulty with those of uncle’s horse.”“He may follow them,” says the señora, heaving a sigh, “but whither will they lead him to. Alas, I fear—”“Have no fear,tia!” interrupts the nephew, with alacrity, an idea occurring to him. “I think I know what’s detaining them—at least, it’s very likely.”“What?” she asks, a spark of hopefulness for an instant lighting up her saddened eyes; Ludwig, at the same time, putting the question.“Well,” replies Cypriano, proceeding to explain, “you know how uncle takes it, when he comes across a new object of natural history, or anything in the way of a curiosity. It makes him forget everything else, and everybody too. Suppose while riding over the campo he chanced upon something of that sort, and stayed to secure it? It may have been too big to be easily brought home.”“No, no!” murmurs the señora, the gleam of hope departing suddenly as it had sprung up. “It cannot be that.”“But it can, and may,” persists the youth, “for there’s something I haven’t yet told you,tia—a thing which makes it more probable.”Again she looks to him inquiringly, as does Ludwig, both listening with all ears for the answer.“The thing I’m speaking of is an ostrich.”“Why an ostrich? your uncle could have no curiosity about that. He sees them every day.”“True, but it’s not every day he can catch them. And it was only yesterday I heard him tell Caspar he wanted one, a cock bird, for some purpose or other, though what, he didn’t say. Now, it’s likely, almost certain, that while on their way to thetolderia, or coming back, he has seen one, given chase to it, leaving Francesca somewhere to wait for him. Well,tia, you know what an ostrich is to chase? Now lagging along as if you could easily throw the noose round its neck, then putting on a fresh spurt—’twould tempt any one to keep on after it. Uncle may have got tantalised in that very way, and galloped leagues upon leagues without thinking of it. To get back to Francesca, and then home, would take all the time that’s passed yet. So don’t let us despair.”The words well meant, and not without some show of reason, fail, however, to bring conviction to the señora. Her heart is too sad, the presentiment too heavy on it, to be affected by any such sophistry. In return, she says despairingly—“No,sobrino! that’s not it. It your uncle had gone after an ostrich, you forget that Caspar has gone after him. If he had found them, they’d all have been back before this.Ay de mi! I know they’ll never be back—never more!”“Nay, mamma! don’t say that,” breaks in Ludwig, flinging his arms around her neck, and kissing the tears from her cheek. “What Cypriano says appears to me probable enough, and likely to be true. But if it isn’t, I think I can tell what is.”Again the sorrowing mother looks inquiringly up; Cypriano, in turn, becoming listener.“My idea,” pursues Ludwig, “is that they went straight on to thetolderia, and are there still—detained against their will.”Cypriano starts, saying. “What makes you think that, cousin?”“Because of Naraguana. You know how the old Indian’s given to drinkingguarapé. Every now and then he gets upon a carousal, and keeps it up for days, sometimes weeks. And he may be at that now, which would account for none of them having been to see us lately. If that’s the reason, the silly old fellow might just take it into his head to detain father and Francesca. Not from any ill will, but only some crazy notion of his own. Now, isn’t that likely enough?”“But Gaspar? they wouldn’t detain him. Nor would he dare stay, after what I said to him at parting.”It is the señora who speaks, for Cypriano is now all absorbed in thoughts which fearfully afflict him.“Gaspar couldn’t help himself, mamma, any more than father or sister. If the chief be as I’ve said—intoxicated—all the other Indians will be the same, sure enough; and Gaspar would have to stay with them, if they wished it. Now, it’s my opinion they have wished it, and are keeping all of them there for the night. No doubt, kindly entertaining them, in their own rough way, however much father and Francesca may dislike it, and Gaspar growl at it. But it’ll be all right. So cheer up,madre mia! We’ll see them home in the morning—by breakfast time, or before it.”Alas! Ludwig’s forecast proves a failure; as his mother too surely expected it would. Morning comes, but with it no word of the missing ones. Nor is any sign seen of them by anxious eyes, that from earliest daybreak have been scanning the plain, which stretches away in front of the estancia. Nothing moves over it but the wild creatures, its denizens; while above it, on widely extended wings, soars a flock of black vultures—ill omen in that moment of doubt and fear.And so passes the hour of breakfast, with other hours, on till it is mid-day, but still no human being appears upon the plain. ’Tis only later, when the sun began to throw elongated shadows, that one is seen there, upon horseback, and going in a gallop; but he is headingfromthe house, and nottowardit. For the rider is Cypriano himself, who, no longer able to bear the torturing suspense, has torn himself away from aunt and cousin, to go in search of his uncle and another cousin—the last dearer than all.

A night of dread suspense has been passed at the estancia of Ludwig Halberger. No one there has thought of sleep. Even the dark-skinned domestics—faithful Guano Indians—touched with sympathy for the señora, their mistress, do not retire to rest. Instead, retainers all, outside the house as within, sit up throughout the night, taking part with her in the anxious vigil.

As the hours drag wearily along, the keener become her apprehensions; that presentiment of the morning, which during all the day has never left her, now pressing upon her spirit with the weight of woe itself. She could scarce be sadder, or surer that some terrible mischance had happened to her husband and daughter, had she seen it with her own eyes. And were both to be brought back dead, ’twould be almost what she is anticipating.

In vain her son Ludwig, an affectionate lad, essays to cheer her. Do his best to assign or invent reasons for their prolonged absence, he cannot chase the dark shadow from her brow, nor lift the load off her heart. And Cypriano, who dearly loves his aunt, has no more success. Indeed, less, since almost as much does he need cheering himself. For although Francesca’s fate is a thing of keen inquietude to the brother, it is yet of keener to the cousin. Love is the strongest of the affections.

But youth, ever hopeful, hinders them from despairing; and despite their solicitude, they find words of comfort for her who hears them without being comforted.

“Keep up heart, mother!” says Ludwig, feigning a cheerfulness he far from feels. “’Twill be all right yet, and we’ll see them home to-morrow morning—if not before. You know that father has often stayed out all night.”

“Never alone,” she despondingly answers. “Never with Francesca. Only when Gaspar was along with him.”

“Well, Gaspar’s with him now, no doubt; and that’ll make all safe. He’s sure to have found them. Don’t you think so, Cypriano?”

“Oh! yes,” mechanically rejoins the cousin, in his heart far from thinking it so, but the reverse. “Wherever they’ve gone he’ll get upon their tracks; and as Gaspar can follow tracks, be they ever so slight, he’ll have no difficulty with those of uncle’s horse.”

“He may follow them,” says the señora, heaving a sigh, “but whither will they lead him to. Alas, I fear—”

“Have no fear,tia!” interrupts the nephew, with alacrity, an idea occurring to him. “I think I know what’s detaining them—at least, it’s very likely.”

“What?” she asks, a spark of hopefulness for an instant lighting up her saddened eyes; Ludwig, at the same time, putting the question.

“Well,” replies Cypriano, proceeding to explain, “you know how uncle takes it, when he comes across a new object of natural history, or anything in the way of a curiosity. It makes him forget everything else, and everybody too. Suppose while riding over the campo he chanced upon something of that sort, and stayed to secure it? It may have been too big to be easily brought home.”

“No, no!” murmurs the señora, the gleam of hope departing suddenly as it had sprung up. “It cannot be that.”

“But it can, and may,” persists the youth, “for there’s something I haven’t yet told you,tia—a thing which makes it more probable.”

Again she looks to him inquiringly, as does Ludwig, both listening with all ears for the answer.

“The thing I’m speaking of is an ostrich.”

“Why an ostrich? your uncle could have no curiosity about that. He sees them every day.”

“True, but it’s not every day he can catch them. And it was only yesterday I heard him tell Caspar he wanted one, a cock bird, for some purpose or other, though what, he didn’t say. Now, it’s likely, almost certain, that while on their way to thetolderia, or coming back, he has seen one, given chase to it, leaving Francesca somewhere to wait for him. Well,tia, you know what an ostrich is to chase? Now lagging along as if you could easily throw the noose round its neck, then putting on a fresh spurt—’twould tempt any one to keep on after it. Uncle may have got tantalised in that very way, and galloped leagues upon leagues without thinking of it. To get back to Francesca, and then home, would take all the time that’s passed yet. So don’t let us despair.”

The words well meant, and not without some show of reason, fail, however, to bring conviction to the señora. Her heart is too sad, the presentiment too heavy on it, to be affected by any such sophistry. In return, she says despairingly—

“No,sobrino! that’s not it. It your uncle had gone after an ostrich, you forget that Caspar has gone after him. If he had found them, they’d all have been back before this.Ay de mi! I know they’ll never be back—never more!”

“Nay, mamma! don’t say that,” breaks in Ludwig, flinging his arms around her neck, and kissing the tears from her cheek. “What Cypriano says appears to me probable enough, and likely to be true. But if it isn’t, I think I can tell what is.”

Again the sorrowing mother looks inquiringly up; Cypriano, in turn, becoming listener.

“My idea,” pursues Ludwig, “is that they went straight on to thetolderia, and are there still—detained against their will.”

Cypriano starts, saying. “What makes you think that, cousin?”

“Because of Naraguana. You know how the old Indian’s given to drinkingguarapé. Every now and then he gets upon a carousal, and keeps it up for days, sometimes weeks. And he may be at that now, which would account for none of them having been to see us lately. If that’s the reason, the silly old fellow might just take it into his head to detain father and Francesca. Not from any ill will, but only some crazy notion of his own. Now, isn’t that likely enough?”

“But Gaspar? they wouldn’t detain him. Nor would he dare stay, after what I said to him at parting.”

It is the señora who speaks, for Cypriano is now all absorbed in thoughts which fearfully afflict him.

“Gaspar couldn’t help himself, mamma, any more than father or sister. If the chief be as I’ve said—intoxicated—all the other Indians will be the same, sure enough; and Gaspar would have to stay with them, if they wished it. Now, it’s my opinion they have wished it, and are keeping all of them there for the night. No doubt, kindly entertaining them, in their own rough way, however much father and Francesca may dislike it, and Gaspar growl at it. But it’ll be all right. So cheer up,madre mia! We’ll see them home in the morning—by breakfast time, or before it.”

Alas! Ludwig’s forecast proves a failure; as his mother too surely expected it would. Morning comes, but with it no word of the missing ones. Nor is any sign seen of them by anxious eyes, that from earliest daybreak have been scanning the plain, which stretches away in front of the estancia. Nothing moves over it but the wild creatures, its denizens; while above it, on widely extended wings, soars a flock of black vultures—ill omen in that moment of doubt and fear.

And so passes the hour of breakfast, with other hours, on till it is mid-day, but still no human being appears upon the plain. ’Tis only later, when the sun began to throw elongated shadows, that one is seen there, upon horseback, and going in a gallop; but he is headingfromthe house, and nottowardit. For the rider is Cypriano himself, who, no longer able to bear the torturing suspense, has torn himself away from aunt and cousin, to go in search of his uncle and another cousin—the last dearer than all.

Chapter Fifteen.A Tedious Journey.It yet wants full two hours of sunset, as the gaucho and his companion come within sight of the estancia. Still, so distant, however, that the house appears not bigger than a dove-cot—a mere fleck of yellow, the colour of thecaña brava, of which its walls are constructed—half hidden by the green foliage of the trees standing around it. The point from which it is viewed is on the summit of a low hill, at least a league off, and in a direct line between the house itself and the deserted Indian village. For although the returning travellers have not passed through the latter place, but, for reasons already given, intentionally avoided it, the route they had taken, now nearer home, has brought them back into that, between it and the estancia.A slow journey they have made. It is all of eight hours since, at earliest sunrise, they rode out from among thesumactrees on the bank of the branch stream; and the distance gone over cannot be much more than twenty miles. Under ordinary circumstances the gaucho would have done it in two hours, or less.As it is, he has had reasons for delaying, more than one. First, his desire to make the journey without being observed; and to guard against this, he has been zig-zagging a good deal, to take advantage of such cover as was offered by the palm-groves and scattered copses ofquebracho.A second cause retarding him has been the strange behaviour of his travelling companion, whose horse he has had to look after all along the way. Nothing has this rider done for himself, nor is yet doing; neither guides the horse, nor lays hand upon the bridle-rein, which, caught over the saddle-bow, swings loosely about. He does not even urge the animal on by whip or spur. And as for word, he has not spoken one all day, neither to the gaucho, nor in soliloquy to himself! Silent he is, as when halted by the edge of thesumacwood, and in exactly the same attitude; the only change observable being his hat, which is a little more slouched over his face, now quite concealing it.But the two causes assigned are not the only ones why they have been so long in reaching the spot where they now are. There is a third influencing the gaucho. He has not wished to make better speed. Nor does he yet desire it, as is evident by his actions. For now arrived on the hill’s top, within sight of home, instead of hastening on towards it he brings his horse to a dead halt, the other, as if mechanically, stopping too. It is not that the animals are tired, and need rest. The pause is for a different purpose; of which some words spoken by the gaucho to himself, give indication. Still in the saddle, his face turned towards the distant dwelling, with eyes intently regarding it, he says:—“Under that roof are three hearts beating anxiously now, I know. Soon to be sadder, though; possibly, one of them to break outright.Pobere señora! what will she say when she hears—when she sees this?Santissima! ’twill go wellnigh killing her, if it don’t quite!”While speaking, he has glanced over his shoulder at the other horseman, who is half a length behind. But again facing to the house, and fixing his gaze upon it, he continues:—“And Cypriano—poor lad! He’ll have his little heart sorely tried, too. So fond of his cousin, and no wonder, such a sweetchiquitita. That will be a house of mourning, when I get home to it!”Once more he pauses in his muttered speech, as if to consider something. Then, looking up at the sun, proceeds:“It’ll be full two hours yet before that sets. Withal I must wait for its setting. ’Twill never do to take him home in broad daylight. No; she mustn’t see him thus, and sha’n’t—if I can help it. I’ll stop here till it’s dark, and, meanwhile, think about the best way of breaking it to her.Carramba! that will be a scene! I could almost wish myself without eyes, rather than witness it. Ah! me! It’ll be enough painful to listen to their lamentations.”In conformity with, the intention just declared, he turns his horse’s head towards a grandombu—growing not far off—the same which, the day before, guided him back to his lost way—and riding on to it pulls up beneath its spreading branches. The other horse, following, stops too. But the man upon his back stays there, while the gaucho acts differently; dismounting, and attaching the bridles of both horses to a branch of the tree. Then he stretches himself along the earth, not to seek sleep or rest, but the better to give his thoughts to reflection, on that about which he has been speaking.He has not been many minutes in his recumbent attitude before being aroused from it. With his ears so close to the ground, sounds are carried to him from afar, and one now reaching them causes him first to start into a sitting posture, and then stand upon his feet. It is but the trample of a horse, and looking in the direction whence it comes sees the animal itself, and its rider soon is seen, recognising both.“Cypriano!” he mechanically exclaims, adding, “Pobrecito! He’s been impatient; anxious; too much to stay for my return, and now’s coming after.”It is Cypriano, approaching from the direction of the house whence he has but lately started, and at great speed, urged on by the anxiety which oppresses him. But he is not heading for theombu, instead, along the more direct path to the Indian town, which would take him past the tree at some three hundred yards’ distance.He does not pass it, nevertheless. Before he has got half-way up the hill, Caspar, taking the bridle of his own horse from the branch, leaps into the saddle, and gallops down to meet him. The gaucho has a reason for not hailing him at a distance, or calling him to come under theombu, till he first held speech with him.“Caspar!” shouts the youth excitedly, soon as he catches sight of the other coming towards him. “What news? Oh? you’ve not found them! I see you haven’t!”“Calm yourself, young master!” rejoins the gaucho, now close up to him; “I have found them—that is, one of them.”“Only one—which?” half distractedly interrogates the youth.“Your uncle—but, alas—”“Dead—dead! I know it by the way you speak. But my cousin! Where is she? Still living? Say so, Caspar! Oh, say but that!”“Come señorito, be brave; as I know you are. It may not be so bad for theniña, your cousin. I’ve no doubt she’s still alive, though I’ve not been successful in finding her. As for your uncle, you must prepare yourself to see something that’ll pain you. Now, promise me you’ll bear it bravely—say you will, and come along with me!”At this Gaspar turns his horse, and heads him back for theombu, the other silently following, stunned almost beyond the power of speech. But once under the tree, and seeing what he there sees, it returns to him. Then the gaucho is witness to an exhibition of grief and rage, both wild as ever agitated the breast of a boy.

It yet wants full two hours of sunset, as the gaucho and his companion come within sight of the estancia. Still, so distant, however, that the house appears not bigger than a dove-cot—a mere fleck of yellow, the colour of thecaña brava, of which its walls are constructed—half hidden by the green foliage of the trees standing around it. The point from which it is viewed is on the summit of a low hill, at least a league off, and in a direct line between the house itself and the deserted Indian village. For although the returning travellers have not passed through the latter place, but, for reasons already given, intentionally avoided it, the route they had taken, now nearer home, has brought them back into that, between it and the estancia.

A slow journey they have made. It is all of eight hours since, at earliest sunrise, they rode out from among thesumactrees on the bank of the branch stream; and the distance gone over cannot be much more than twenty miles. Under ordinary circumstances the gaucho would have done it in two hours, or less.

As it is, he has had reasons for delaying, more than one. First, his desire to make the journey without being observed; and to guard against this, he has been zig-zagging a good deal, to take advantage of such cover as was offered by the palm-groves and scattered copses ofquebracho.

A second cause retarding him has been the strange behaviour of his travelling companion, whose horse he has had to look after all along the way. Nothing has this rider done for himself, nor is yet doing; neither guides the horse, nor lays hand upon the bridle-rein, which, caught over the saddle-bow, swings loosely about. He does not even urge the animal on by whip or spur. And as for word, he has not spoken one all day, neither to the gaucho, nor in soliloquy to himself! Silent he is, as when halted by the edge of thesumacwood, and in exactly the same attitude; the only change observable being his hat, which is a little more slouched over his face, now quite concealing it.

But the two causes assigned are not the only ones why they have been so long in reaching the spot where they now are. There is a third influencing the gaucho. He has not wished to make better speed. Nor does he yet desire it, as is evident by his actions. For now arrived on the hill’s top, within sight of home, instead of hastening on towards it he brings his horse to a dead halt, the other, as if mechanically, stopping too. It is not that the animals are tired, and need rest. The pause is for a different purpose; of which some words spoken by the gaucho to himself, give indication. Still in the saddle, his face turned towards the distant dwelling, with eyes intently regarding it, he says:—

“Under that roof are three hearts beating anxiously now, I know. Soon to be sadder, though; possibly, one of them to break outright.Pobere señora! what will she say when she hears—when she sees this?Santissima! ’twill go wellnigh killing her, if it don’t quite!”

While speaking, he has glanced over his shoulder at the other horseman, who is half a length behind. But again facing to the house, and fixing his gaze upon it, he continues:—

“And Cypriano—poor lad! He’ll have his little heart sorely tried, too. So fond of his cousin, and no wonder, such a sweetchiquitita. That will be a house of mourning, when I get home to it!”

Once more he pauses in his muttered speech, as if to consider something. Then, looking up at the sun, proceeds:

“It’ll be full two hours yet before that sets. Withal I must wait for its setting. ’Twill never do to take him home in broad daylight. No; she mustn’t see him thus, and sha’n’t—if I can help it. I’ll stop here till it’s dark, and, meanwhile, think about the best way of breaking it to her.Carramba! that will be a scene! I could almost wish myself without eyes, rather than witness it. Ah! me! It’ll be enough painful to listen to their lamentations.”

In conformity with, the intention just declared, he turns his horse’s head towards a grandombu—growing not far off—the same which, the day before, guided him back to his lost way—and riding on to it pulls up beneath its spreading branches. The other horse, following, stops too. But the man upon his back stays there, while the gaucho acts differently; dismounting, and attaching the bridles of both horses to a branch of the tree. Then he stretches himself along the earth, not to seek sleep or rest, but the better to give his thoughts to reflection, on that about which he has been speaking.

He has not been many minutes in his recumbent attitude before being aroused from it. With his ears so close to the ground, sounds are carried to him from afar, and one now reaching them causes him first to start into a sitting posture, and then stand upon his feet. It is but the trample of a horse, and looking in the direction whence it comes sees the animal itself, and its rider soon is seen, recognising both.

“Cypriano!” he mechanically exclaims, adding, “Pobrecito! He’s been impatient; anxious; too much to stay for my return, and now’s coming after.”

It is Cypriano, approaching from the direction of the house whence he has but lately started, and at great speed, urged on by the anxiety which oppresses him. But he is not heading for theombu, instead, along the more direct path to the Indian town, which would take him past the tree at some three hundred yards’ distance.

He does not pass it, nevertheless. Before he has got half-way up the hill, Caspar, taking the bridle of his own horse from the branch, leaps into the saddle, and gallops down to meet him. The gaucho has a reason for not hailing him at a distance, or calling him to come under theombu, till he first held speech with him.

“Caspar!” shouts the youth excitedly, soon as he catches sight of the other coming towards him. “What news? Oh? you’ve not found them! I see you haven’t!”

“Calm yourself, young master!” rejoins the gaucho, now close up to him; “I have found them—that is, one of them.”

“Only one—which?” half distractedly interrogates the youth.

“Your uncle—but, alas—”

“Dead—dead! I know it by the way you speak. But my cousin! Where is she? Still living? Say so, Caspar! Oh, say but that!”

“Come señorito, be brave; as I know you are. It may not be so bad for theniña, your cousin. I’ve no doubt she’s still alive, though I’ve not been successful in finding her. As for your uncle, you must prepare yourself to see something that’ll pain you. Now, promise me you’ll bear it bravely—say you will, and come along with me!”

At this Gaspar turns his horse, and heads him back for theombu, the other silently following, stunned almost beyond the power of speech. But once under the tree, and seeing what he there sees, it returns to him. Then the gaucho is witness to an exhibition of grief and rage, both wild as ever agitated the breast of a boy.

Chapter Sixteen.Dead!Once more the sun is going down over the pampa, but still nothing seen upon it to cheer the eyes of the Señora Halberger, neither those first missing, nor they who went after. One after another she has seen them depart, but in vain looks for their return.And now, as she stands with eyes wandering over that grassy wilderness, she can almost imagine it a maelstrom or some voracious monster, that swallows up all who venture upon it. As the purple of twilight assumes the darker shade of night, it seems to her as though some unearthly and invisible hand were spreading a pall over the plain to cover her dear ones, somewhere lying dead upon it.She is in the verandah with her son, and side by side they stand gazing outward, as long as there is light for them to see. Even after darkness has descended they continue to strain their eyes mechanically, but despairingly, she more hopeless and feeling more forlorn than ever. All gone but Ludwig! for even her nephew may not return. Where Caspar, a strong man and experienced in the ways of the wilderness, has failed to find the lost ones, what chance will there be for Cypriano? More like some cruel enemy has made captives of them all, killing all, one after the other, and he, falling into the same snare, has been sacrificed as the rest!Dark as is this hour of her apprehension, there is yet a darker one in store for her; but before it there is to be light, with joy—alas! short-lived as that bright, garish gleam of sun which often precedes the wildest burst of a storm. Just as the last ray of hope has forsaken her, a house-dog, lying outstretched by the verandah starts to its feet with a growl, and bounding off into the darkness, sets up a sonorous baying.Both mother and son step hastily forward to the baluster rail, and resting hands on it, again strain their eyes outward, now as never before, at the same time listening as for some signal sound, on the hearing of which hung their very lives.Soon they both hear and see what gives them gladness unspeakable, their ears first imparting it by a sound sweeter to them than any music, for it is the tread of horses’ hoofs upon the firm turf of the plain; and almost in the same instant they see the horses themselves, each with a rider upon its back.The exclamation that leaps from the mother’s lips is the cry of a heart long held in torture suddenly released, and without staying to repeat it, she rushes out of the verandah and on across the patch of enclosed ground—not stopping till outside the palings which enclose it. Ludwig following, comes again by her side, and the two stand with eyes fixed on the approaching forms, there now so near that they are able to make out their number.But this gives them surprise, somewhat alarming them afresh. For there are butthreewhere there should befour.“It must be your father and Francesca, with Caspar,” says the señora, speaking in doubt. “Cypriano has missed them all, I suppose. But he’ll come too—”“No, mother,” interrupts Ludwig, “Cypriano is there. I can see a white horse, that must be his.”“Gaspar then; he it is that’s behind.”She says this with a secret hope it may be so.“It don’t look like as if Gaspar was behind,” returns Ludwig, hesitating in his speech, for his eyes, as his heart, tell him there is still something amiss. “Two of them,” he continues, “are men, full grown, and the third is surely Cypriano.”They have no time for further discussion or conjecture—no occasion for it. The three shadowy figures are now very near, and just as the foremost pulls up in front of the palings, the moon bursting forth from behind a cloud flashes her full light upon his face, and they see it is Gaspar. The figures farther off are lit up at the same time, and the señora recognises them as her husband and nephew. A quick searching glance carried behind to the croups of their horses shows her there is no one save those seated in the saddle.“Where is Francesca?” she cries out in agonised accents. “Where is my daughter?”No one makes answer; not any of them speaks. Gaspar, who is nearest, but hangs his head, as does his master behind him.“What means all this?” is her next question, as she dashes past the gaucho’s horse, and on to her husband, as she goes crying out, “Where is Francesca? What have you done with my child?”He makes no reply, nor any gesture—not even a word to acknowledge her presence! Drawing closer she clutches him by the knee, continuing her distracted interrogatories.“Husband! why are you thus silent? Ludwig, dear Ludwig, why don’t you answer me? Ah! now I know. She is dead—dead!”“Notshe, buthe,” says a voice close to her ear—that of Gaspar, who has dismounted and stepped up to her.“He! who?”“Alas! señora, my master, your husband.”“O Heavens! can this be true?” as she speaks, stretching her arms up to the inanimate form, still in the saddle—for it is fast tied there—and throwing them around it; then with one hand lifting off the hat, which falls from her trembling fingers, she gazes on a ghastly face, and into eyes that return not her gaze. But for an instant, when, with a wild cry, she sinks back upon the earth, and lies silent, motionless, the moonbeams shimmering upon her cheeks, showing them white and bloodless, as if her last spark of life had departed!

Once more the sun is going down over the pampa, but still nothing seen upon it to cheer the eyes of the Señora Halberger, neither those first missing, nor they who went after. One after another she has seen them depart, but in vain looks for their return.

And now, as she stands with eyes wandering over that grassy wilderness, she can almost imagine it a maelstrom or some voracious monster, that swallows up all who venture upon it. As the purple of twilight assumes the darker shade of night, it seems to her as though some unearthly and invisible hand were spreading a pall over the plain to cover her dear ones, somewhere lying dead upon it.

She is in the verandah with her son, and side by side they stand gazing outward, as long as there is light for them to see. Even after darkness has descended they continue to strain their eyes mechanically, but despairingly, she more hopeless and feeling more forlorn than ever. All gone but Ludwig! for even her nephew may not return. Where Caspar, a strong man and experienced in the ways of the wilderness, has failed to find the lost ones, what chance will there be for Cypriano? More like some cruel enemy has made captives of them all, killing all, one after the other, and he, falling into the same snare, has been sacrificed as the rest!

Dark as is this hour of her apprehension, there is yet a darker one in store for her; but before it there is to be light, with joy—alas! short-lived as that bright, garish gleam of sun which often precedes the wildest burst of a storm. Just as the last ray of hope has forsaken her, a house-dog, lying outstretched by the verandah starts to its feet with a growl, and bounding off into the darkness, sets up a sonorous baying.

Both mother and son step hastily forward to the baluster rail, and resting hands on it, again strain their eyes outward, now as never before, at the same time listening as for some signal sound, on the hearing of which hung their very lives.

Soon they both hear and see what gives them gladness unspeakable, their ears first imparting it by a sound sweeter to them than any music, for it is the tread of horses’ hoofs upon the firm turf of the plain; and almost in the same instant they see the horses themselves, each with a rider upon its back.

The exclamation that leaps from the mother’s lips is the cry of a heart long held in torture suddenly released, and without staying to repeat it, she rushes out of the verandah and on across the patch of enclosed ground—not stopping till outside the palings which enclose it. Ludwig following, comes again by her side, and the two stand with eyes fixed on the approaching forms, there now so near that they are able to make out their number.

But this gives them surprise, somewhat alarming them afresh. For there are butthreewhere there should befour.

“It must be your father and Francesca, with Caspar,” says the señora, speaking in doubt. “Cypriano has missed them all, I suppose. But he’ll come too—”

“No, mother,” interrupts Ludwig, “Cypriano is there. I can see a white horse, that must be his.”

“Gaspar then; he it is that’s behind.”

She says this with a secret hope it may be so.

“It don’t look like as if Gaspar was behind,” returns Ludwig, hesitating in his speech, for his eyes, as his heart, tell him there is still something amiss. “Two of them,” he continues, “are men, full grown, and the third is surely Cypriano.”

They have no time for further discussion or conjecture—no occasion for it. The three shadowy figures are now very near, and just as the foremost pulls up in front of the palings, the moon bursting forth from behind a cloud flashes her full light upon his face, and they see it is Gaspar. The figures farther off are lit up at the same time, and the señora recognises them as her husband and nephew. A quick searching glance carried behind to the croups of their horses shows her there is no one save those seated in the saddle.

“Where is Francesca?” she cries out in agonised accents. “Where is my daughter?”

No one makes answer; not any of them speaks. Gaspar, who is nearest, but hangs his head, as does his master behind him.

“What means all this?” is her next question, as she dashes past the gaucho’s horse, and on to her husband, as she goes crying out, “Where is Francesca? What have you done with my child?”

He makes no reply, nor any gesture—not even a word to acknowledge her presence! Drawing closer she clutches him by the knee, continuing her distracted interrogatories.

“Husband! why are you thus silent? Ludwig, dear Ludwig, why don’t you answer me? Ah! now I know. She is dead—dead!”

“Notshe, buthe,” says a voice close to her ear—that of Gaspar, who has dismounted and stepped up to her.

“He! who?”

“Alas! señora, my master, your husband.”

“O Heavens! can this be true?” as she speaks, stretching her arms up to the inanimate form, still in the saddle—for it is fast tied there—and throwing them around it; then with one hand lifting off the hat, which falls from her trembling fingers, she gazes on a ghastly face, and into eyes that return not her gaze. But for an instant, when, with a wild cry, she sinks back upon the earth, and lies silent, motionless, the moonbeams shimmering upon her cheeks, showing them white and bloodless, as if her last spark of life had departed!

Chapter Seventeen.On the Trail.It is the day succeeding that on which the hunter-naturalist was carried home a corpse, sitting upright in his saddle. The sun has gone down over the Gran Chaco, and its vast grassy plains and green palm-groves are again under the purple of twilight. Herds of statelyquazutisand troops of thepampasroebuck—beautiful creatures, spotted like fawns of the fallow-deer—move leisurely towards their watering-places, having already browsed to satiety on pastures where they are but rarely disturbed by the hunter, for here no sound of horse nor baying of molossian ever breaks the stillness of the early morn, and the only enemies they have habitually to dread are the red puma and yellow jaguar, throughout Spanish America respectively, but erroneously, named lion (leon) and tiger (tigre), from a resemblance, though a very slight one, which these, the largest of the New World’sfelidae, bear to their still grander congeners of the Old.The scene we are about to depict is upon the Pilcomayo’s bank, some twenty miles above the oldtomeriaof the Tovas Indians, and therefore thirty from the house of Ludwig Halberger—now his no more, but a house of mourning. The mourners, however, are not all in it, for by a camp-fire freshly kindled at the place we speak of; two of them are seen seated. One is the son of the murdered man, the other his nephew; while not far off is a third individual, who mourns almost as much as either. Need I say it is Caspar, the gaucho?Or is it necessary to give explanation of their being thus far from home so soon after that sad event, the cause of their sorrow? No. The circumstances speak for themselves; telling than to be there on an errand connected with that same crime; in short, in pursuit of the criminals.Who these may be they have as yet no definite knowledge. All is but blind conjectures, the only thing certain being that the double crime has been committed by Indians; for the trail which has conducted to the spot they are now on, first coming down the river’s bank to the branch stream, then over its ford and back again, could have been made only by a mounted party of red men.But of what tribe? That is the question which puzzles them. Not the only one, however. Something besides causes them surprise, equally perplexing them. Among the other hoof-marks, they have observed some that must have been made by a horse with shoes on; and as they know the Chaco Indians never ride such, the thing strikes them as very strange. It would not so much, were the shod-tracks only traceable twice along the trail; that is, coming down the river and returning up again, for they might suppose that one of the savages was in possession of a white man’s horse, stolen from some of the settlements, a thing of no uncommon occurrence. But then they have here likewise observed a third set of these tracks, of older date, also going up, and a fourth, freshest of all, returning down again; the last on top of everything else, continuing on to the oldtolderia, as they have noticed all the way since leaving it.And in their examination of the many hoof-marks by the force of the tributary stream, up to thesumacthicket—and along thetapirpath to that blood-stained spot which they have just visited—the same tracks are conspicuous amid all the others, telling that he who rode the shod horse has had a hand in the murder, and likely a leading one.It is the gaucho who has made most of these observations, but about the deductions to be drawn from them, he is, for the time, as much at fault as either of his younger companions.They have just arrived at their present halting-place, their first camp since leaving theestancia; from which they parted a little before mid-day: soon as the sad, funeral rites were over, and the body of the murdered man laid in its grave. This done at an early hour of the morning, for the hot climate of the Chaco calls for quick interment.The sorrowing wife did nought to forbid their departure. She had her sorrows as a mother, too; and, instead of trying to restrain, she but urged them to take immediate action in searching for her lost child.That Francesca is still living they all believe, and so long as there seemed a hope—even the slightest—of recovering her, the bereaved mother was willing to be left alone. Her faithful Guanos would be with her.It needed no persuasive argument to send the searchers off. In their own minds they have enough motive for haste; and, though in each it might be different in kind, as in degree, with all it is sufficiently strong. Not one of them but is willing to risk his life in the pursuit they have entered upon; and at least one would lay it down rather than fail in finding Francesca, and restoring her to her mother.They have followed thus far on the track of the abductors, but without any fixed or definite plan as to continuing. Indeed, there has been no time to think of one, or anything else; all hitherto acting under that impulse of anxiety for the girl’s fate which they so keenly feel. But now that the first hurried step has been taken, and they can go no further till another sun lights up the trail, calmer reflection comes, admonishing them to greater caution in their movements. For they who have so ruthlessly killed one man would as readily take other lives—their own. What they have undertaken is no mere question of skill in taking up a trail, but an enterprise full of peril; and they have need to be cautious how they proceed upon it.They are so acting now. Their camp-fire is but a small one, just sufficient to boil a kettle of water for making thematé, and the spot where they have placed it is in a hollow, so that it may not be seen from afar. Besides, a clump of palms screens it on the western side, the direction in which the trail leads, and therefore the likeliest for them to apprehend danger.Soon as coming to a stop, and before kindling the fire Gaspar has gone all around, and made a thorough survey of the situation. Then, satisfied it is a safe one, he undertakes the picketing of their horses, directing the others to set light to the faggots; which they have done, and seated themselves beside.

It is the day succeeding that on which the hunter-naturalist was carried home a corpse, sitting upright in his saddle. The sun has gone down over the Gran Chaco, and its vast grassy plains and green palm-groves are again under the purple of twilight. Herds of statelyquazutisand troops of thepampasroebuck—beautiful creatures, spotted like fawns of the fallow-deer—move leisurely towards their watering-places, having already browsed to satiety on pastures where they are but rarely disturbed by the hunter, for here no sound of horse nor baying of molossian ever breaks the stillness of the early morn, and the only enemies they have habitually to dread are the red puma and yellow jaguar, throughout Spanish America respectively, but erroneously, named lion (leon) and tiger (tigre), from a resemblance, though a very slight one, which these, the largest of the New World’sfelidae, bear to their still grander congeners of the Old.

The scene we are about to depict is upon the Pilcomayo’s bank, some twenty miles above the oldtomeriaof the Tovas Indians, and therefore thirty from the house of Ludwig Halberger—now his no more, but a house of mourning. The mourners, however, are not all in it, for by a camp-fire freshly kindled at the place we speak of; two of them are seen seated. One is the son of the murdered man, the other his nephew; while not far off is a third individual, who mourns almost as much as either. Need I say it is Caspar, the gaucho?

Or is it necessary to give explanation of their being thus far from home so soon after that sad event, the cause of their sorrow? No. The circumstances speak for themselves; telling than to be there on an errand connected with that same crime; in short, in pursuit of the criminals.

Who these may be they have as yet no definite knowledge. All is but blind conjectures, the only thing certain being that the double crime has been committed by Indians; for the trail which has conducted to the spot they are now on, first coming down the river’s bank to the branch stream, then over its ford and back again, could have been made only by a mounted party of red men.

But of what tribe? That is the question which puzzles them. Not the only one, however. Something besides causes them surprise, equally perplexing them. Among the other hoof-marks, they have observed some that must have been made by a horse with shoes on; and as they know the Chaco Indians never ride such, the thing strikes them as very strange. It would not so much, were the shod-tracks only traceable twice along the trail; that is, coming down the river and returning up again, for they might suppose that one of the savages was in possession of a white man’s horse, stolen from some of the settlements, a thing of no uncommon occurrence. But then they have here likewise observed a third set of these tracks, of older date, also going up, and a fourth, freshest of all, returning down again; the last on top of everything else, continuing on to the oldtolderia, as they have noticed all the way since leaving it.

And in their examination of the many hoof-marks by the force of the tributary stream, up to thesumacthicket—and along thetapirpath to that blood-stained spot which they have just visited—the same tracks are conspicuous amid all the others, telling that he who rode the shod horse has had a hand in the murder, and likely a leading one.

It is the gaucho who has made most of these observations, but about the deductions to be drawn from them, he is, for the time, as much at fault as either of his younger companions.

They have just arrived at their present halting-place, their first camp since leaving theestancia; from which they parted a little before mid-day: soon as the sad, funeral rites were over, and the body of the murdered man laid in its grave. This done at an early hour of the morning, for the hot climate of the Chaco calls for quick interment.

The sorrowing wife did nought to forbid their departure. She had her sorrows as a mother, too; and, instead of trying to restrain, she but urged them to take immediate action in searching for her lost child.

That Francesca is still living they all believe, and so long as there seemed a hope—even the slightest—of recovering her, the bereaved mother was willing to be left alone. Her faithful Guanos would be with her.

It needed no persuasive argument to send the searchers off. In their own minds they have enough motive for haste; and, though in each it might be different in kind, as in degree, with all it is sufficiently strong. Not one of them but is willing to risk his life in the pursuit they have entered upon; and at least one would lay it down rather than fail in finding Francesca, and restoring her to her mother.

They have followed thus far on the track of the abductors, but without any fixed or definite plan as to continuing. Indeed, there has been no time to think of one, or anything else; all hitherto acting under that impulse of anxiety for the girl’s fate which they so keenly feel. But now that the first hurried step has been taken, and they can go no further till another sun lights up the trail, calmer reflection comes, admonishing them to greater caution in their movements. For they who have so ruthlessly killed one man would as readily take other lives—their own. What they have undertaken is no mere question of skill in taking up a trail, but an enterprise full of peril; and they have need to be cautious how they proceed upon it.

They are so acting now. Their camp-fire is but a small one, just sufficient to boil a kettle of water for making thematé, and the spot where they have placed it is in a hollow, so that it may not be seen from afar. Besides, a clump of palms screens it on the western side, the direction in which the trail leads, and therefore the likeliest for them to apprehend danger.

Soon as coming to a stop, and before kindling the fire Gaspar has gone all around, and made a thorough survey of the situation. Then, satisfied it is a safe one, he undertakes the picketing of their horses, directing the others to set light to the faggots; which they have done, and seated themselves beside.

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