Chapter Eighteen.
Who rode the Shod Horse?
While waiting for the gaucho to rejoin them by the fire the two youths are not silent, but converse upon the event which saddens and still mystifies them. For up till this moment they have not seen anything, nor can they think of aught to account for the calamity which has befallen them—the double crime that has been committed. No more can they conceive who have been the perpetrators; though Cypriano all along has had his suspicions. And now for the first time he communicates them to his cousin, saying—
“It’s been the work of Tovas Indians.”
“Impossible, Cypriano!” exclaims Ludwig in surprise. “Why should they murder my poor father? What motive could they have had for it?”
“Motive enough; at least one of them had.”
“One! who mean you?”
“Aguara.”
“Aguara! But why he of all the others? And for what?”
“For what? Simply to get possession of your sister.”
Ludwig starts, showing greater astonishment than ever.
“Cypriano!” he exclaims; “what do you mean?”
“Just what I’ve said, cousin. You’re perhaps not aware of what I’ve myself known for long; that the chief’s son has been fixing his eyes on Francesca.”
“The scoundrel!” cries Ludwig, with increasing indignation, for the first time apprised of the fact thus made known to him. Unobservant of such things generally, it had never occurred to him to reflect on what had long been patent to the jealous eyes of Cypriano. Besides, the thing seemed so absurd, even preposterous—a red-skinned savage presuming to look upon his sister in the light of a sweetheart, daring to love her—that the son of the Prussian naturalist, with all the prejudices of race, could not be otherwise than incredulous of it.
“Are you sure of that?” he questions, still doubting. “Sure of what you’ve said, Cypriano?”
“Quite sure,” is the confident rejoinder; “more than once I’ve observed Aguara’s free behaviour towards my cousin; and once would have thrashed the impudent redskin, but for uncle interfering. He was afraid it might get us into trouble with Naraguana.”
“But did father himself know of it? I mean about Aguara and Francesca?”
“No. I rather think not. And I disliked telling him.”
All this is new light to Ludwig, and turns his thoughts into the same channel of suspicion where those of Cypriano have been already running. Still, whatever he may think of Naraguana’s son, he cannot bring himself to believe that Naraguana has been guilty. His father’s friend, and hitherto their protector!
“It cannot be!” he exclaims; “surely it cannot be!”
“It may be for all that, and in my opinion is. Ah! cousin, there’s no telling how an Indian will act. I never knew one who didn’t turn treacherous when it served his purpose. Whether the old chief has been so or not, I’m quite sure his son has. Take my word for it, Ludwig, it’s the Tovas Indians who’ve done this deed, and it will be with them we’ll have to deal.”
“But whither can they have gone? and why went they off so suddenly and secretly, without letting father or any of us know. All that certainly seems strange.”
“Not so strange when we think of what’s happened since. My idea is, it’s been all a planned thing. Aguara got his father to agree to his carrying off Francesca; and the old chief, controlled by the young one, let him take his way. Fearing to face uncle he first went off, taking the whole tribe along; and they’re now, no doubt, residing in some distant part of the Chaco, where they suppose we’ll never go after them. But Francesca will be there too; and we must follow and find her—ay, if we have to lay down our lives when she’s found. Shall we not, cousin?”
“Yes; shall and will!” is Ludwig’s rejoinder in a tone of determination; their dialogue getting interrupted by Gaspar coming back to the camp-fire, and saying—
“Now, señoritos! It’s high time we had some supper.”
On making this announcement the gaucho himself sets about preparing their evening repast. It requires no great effort of culinary skill; since the more substantial portion of it has been already cooked, and is now presented in the shape of a cold shoulder of mutton, with a cake of corn bread, extracted from a pair of alparejas, or saddle-bags. In the Chaco there are sheep—the Indians themselves breeding them—while since settling there the hunter-naturalist had not neglected either pastoral or agricultural pursuits. Hence the meal from which came that cake of maize-bread.
With these two pièces de résistance nothing remains but to make a cup of “Paraguay tea,” for which Gaspar has provided all the materials, viz., an iron kettle for boiling water, cups of cocoa-nut shell termed matés—for this is the name of the vessel, not the beverage—and certain tubes, the bombillas, to serve as spoons; the Paraguayan tea being imbibed, not in the ordinary way, but sucked up through these bombillas. All the above implements, with a little sugar for sweetening; and, lastly, the yerba itself, has the thoughtful gaucho brought along. No milk, however; the lacteal fluid not being deemed a necessary ingredient in the cup which cheers the Paraguayan people, without intoxicating them.
Gaspar—as all gauchos, skilled in the concoction of it—in a short time has the three matés brimful of the brew. Then the bombillas are inserted, and the process of sucking commences; suspended only at intervals while the more substantial mutton and maize-bread are being masticated.
Meanwhile, as a measure of security, the camp-fire has been extinguished, though they still keep their places around its embers. And while eating, converse; Cypriano imparting to Gaspar the suspicions he has already communicated to his cousin.
It is no new idea to the gaucho; instead, the very one his own thoughts have been dwelling upon. For he, too, had long observed the behaviour of the young Tovas chief towards the daughter of his dueño. And what has now occurred seems to coincide with that—all except the supposed treachery of Naraguana. A good judge of character, as most gauchos are, Gaspar cannot think of the aged cacique having turned traitor. Still, as Ludwig, he is at a loss what to think. For why should the Tovas chief have made that abrupt departure from his late abiding place? The reason assigned by Cypriano is not, to his view, satisfactory; though he cannot imagine any other. So, they finish their suppers and retire to rest, without having arrived at any certain conclusion, one way or the other.
With heads rested upon their saddles, and their ponchos wrapped around them, they seek sleep, Ludwig first finding it; next Cypriano, though he lies long awake—kept so by torturing thoughts. But tired nature at length overpowers him, and he too sinks into slumber.
The gaucho alone surrenders not to the drowsy god; but, repelling his attacks, still lies reflecting. Thus run his reflections—as will be seen, touching near the truth:
“Carramba! I can think of but one man in all the world who had an interest in the death of my dear master. One there was who’d have given a good deal to see him dead—that’s El Supremo. No doubt he searched high and low for us, after we gave him the slip. But then, two years gone by since! One would think it enough to have made him almost forget us. Forgive, no! that wouldn’t be Señor José Francia. He never forgives. Nor is it likely he has forgotten, either, what the dueño did. Crossing him in his vile purpose, was just the sort of thing to stick in his crop for the remainder of his life; and I shouldn’t wonder if it’s his hand has been here. Odd, those tracks of a shod horse; four times back and forward! And the last of them, by their look, must have been made as late as yesterday—some time in the early morning, I should say. Beyond the old tolderia, downward, they’ve gone. I wish I’d turned a bit that way as we came up, so as to be sure of it. Well, I’ll find that out, when we get back from this pursuit; which I very much fear will prove a wild goose chase.”
For a time he lies without stirring, or moving a muscle, on his back, with eyes seemingly fixed upon the stars, like an ancient astrologer in the act of consulting them for the solution of some deep mystery hidden from mortal ken. Then, as if having just solved it, he gives a sudden start, exclaiming:
“Sangre de Crista! that’s the explanation of all, the whole affair; murder, abduction, everything.”
His words, though only muttered, awaken Cypriano, still only half-asleep.
“What is it, Gaspar?” questions the youth.
“Oh, nothing, señorito; only a mosquito that took a fancy to stick its bill into the bridge of my nose. But I’ve given Master Zancudo his quietus; and he won’t trouble me again.”
Though the gaucho thinks he has at last got the clue to what has been mystifying them, like all skilled tacticians he intends for a time keeping it to himself. So, saying no more, he leaves his young companion to return to his slumbers: which the latter soon does. Himself now more widely awake than ever, he follows up the train of thought Cypriano had interrupted.
“It’s clear that Francia has at length found out our whereabouts. I wonder he didn’t do so long ago; and have often warned the dueño of the danger we were in. Of course, Naraguana kept him constantly assured; and with war to the knife between the Tovas and Paraguayans, no wonder my poor master was too careless and confident. But something has happened lately to affect their relations. The Indians moving so mysteriously away from their old place shows it. And these shod-tracks tell, almost for sure, that some white man has been on a visit to them, wherever they are now. Just as sure about this white man being an emissary from El Supremo. And who would his emissary be? Who sent on such an errand so likely as him?”
The emphasis on the “him” points to some one not yet mentioned, but whom the gaucho has in his mind. Soon, however, he gives the name, saying:
“The scoundrel who bestrode that horse—and a thorough scoundrel too—is Rufino Valdez. Assassin, besides! It’s he who has murdered my master. I’d lay my life on it.”
After arriving at this conclusion, he adds:
“What a pity I didn’t think of this before! If but yesterday morning! He must have passed along the trail going back, and alone? Ah! the chance I’ve let escape me! Such an opportunity for settling old scores with Señor Rufino! Well, he and I may meet yet; and if we do, one of us will have to stay on the spot where that encounter takes place, or be carried from it feet foremost. I think I know which would go that way, and which the other.”
Thus predicating, the gaucho pulls his poncho around his shoulders, and composes himself for sleep; though it is some time before he succeeds in procuring it.
But Morpheus coming to his aid, proves too many for the passions which agitate him; and he at length sinks into a profound slumber, not broken till the curassows send up their shrill cries—as the crowing of Chanticleer—to tell that another day is dawning upon the Chaco.