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 the caña 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 the sumac trees 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 of quebracho.
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 the sumac wood, 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 sweet chiquitita. 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 grand ombu—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 the ombu, 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 the ombu, 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 the niña, 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 the ombu, 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.