Chapter Fifty Seven.
The Captive Recaptured.
Impossible to describe the feelings of Caspar, when having recovered his feet after the tumble out of his recado, he finds that Shebotha has got away from him. It is some consolation to know that neither himself nor his horse has received serious injury. Still not sufficient to satisfy him, nor allay the wild exasperation burning within his breast, which seeks to vent itself in a string of maledictions poured plenteously from his lips.
As the hag, however, has surely succeeded in getting off, and it would be idle to attempt pursuing through the thick scrub, his anathemas hurled after her are all in vain: and, at thought of this, he soon ceases to pronounce them. For the reflection quick follows, that he and his companions have now something else to think about—their own safety, doubly endangered by Shebotha’s escape.
“Mil demonios!” is his last exclaim of the kind, after getting his horse upright again and himself back into the saddle, “who’d have believed the old beldame had so much suppleness in her joints? But it’s no joking matter. Only to think of it! Everything looking so bright, and now Satan’s luck once more back upon us—bad, if not worse, than ever! Well, we mustn’t dilly-dally here. If there’s still a chance left us, we’ll have to look for it down below, by that big cotton tree.”
Saying which, he again gives the rein to his horse, and continues the descent of the hill, the others head and tail close after.
On reaching the said cotton tree, however, Gaspar changes his mind about that spot being the best for their temporary abiding place. Since its being arranged as a rendezvous with Nacena, the circumstances have sadly altered, and, on reflection, he deems it better, as do the others, to keep on along the road towards the tolderia—at least for some little distance. There can be no harm in that, nor danger of their going astray. The path is a plain one, much trampled by horses and cattle, and, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, easily discernible. If fortune so far favour them, that the captive will be coming that way, under the guidance of the Indian girl, the sooner these be met the more chance for all eventually getting safe off, rescuers as rescued.
So concluding, they make scarce a moment’s halt by the ceiba; but, passing under its umbrageous branches, head their horses along the trail leading to the town.
At this moment were it daylight, or even a clear moonlight, one placed upon the brow of the hill fronting south-eastward, and looking down to the level plain by its base, would behold two separate parties moving upon it, but in opposite directions, so that, if they continue to advance, they must meet. One party is mounted, the other afoot; the former being Gaspar and his two companions, while the latter is also composed of three individuals—Nacena, Francesca, and Shebotha’s slave. The two girls, going in a half-run, are side by side, and ahead of the man; who, less free of foot, has fallen behind them to a distance of some twenty or thirty paces. Nacena, who knows the way, guides the escaping captive, and has hold of her by the hand. They are now not more than half-a-mile from the mounted party, coming the opposite way, and in a few minutes should meet it, if nothing prevent. Already within hailing distance, they might hear one another’s voices; but neither being aware of this mutual proximity, all advance in silence—the trio on horseback proceeding at a slow pace for caution’s sake, lest the tread of their animals should betray them.
But if their own be not heard afar, there are other hoofs making a noise to disturb the stillness of the night. Just as the Indian girl has whispered to her paleface protégée some words of cheer, saying that her friends are now no great way off, she is startled by the hoof-stroke of a horse, which her practised ear tells her to be ridden; while the rapid repetition of the sound denotes the animal going in a gallop.
Suddenly she stops, and listens. Clearer rings the “tramp—tramp,” as nearer the horseman approaches. Coming up behind, from the direction of the town, who can it be but one in pursuit of them? And if a pursuer, what other than Aguara?
Still Nacena is in doubt, and deems it strange. As they stole away from Shebotha’s hut, and through the straggling suburb of the tolderia, all was darkness and silence, everybody seeming asleep. Who or what could have awakened the cacique, and apprised him of the flight of his captive?
In asking herself these questions, Kaolin’s sister is under the belief, that the sorceress is herself still a prisoner, in the keeping of that stalwart and redoubtable gaucho. Hence her surprise at their being pursued, with the uncertainty that they are so, and the further doubt of the pursuer being Aguara.
He it is, notwithstanding; and as yet pursuing alone. For although soon can be heard the hoof-strokes of other horses than his also following, these are faint and far-off. He himself hears them; knows it is a party of his young braves pressing on after, but will not wait for them to come up. For he hopes to overtake the fugitives, ere they can reach the place of rendezvous Shebotha has spoken of, and recover his captive before she can fling herself into the arms of protecting friends.
In this hope, alas! he is not disappointed. Dashing on through the darkness along a road with every foot of which both he and his horse are familiar, he first comes up with the half-witted creature lagging behind, soon as beside him putting the question—
“Where is the paleface, your prisoner?”
The man, frightened at seeing it is the cacique, in his confusion hesitates to make reply. But Aguara does not wait for it. He hears voices ahead—soft and sweet, though raised in tones of alarm—and knows she must be there. Giving his horse’s head a wrench, so as to shave close past the delinquent jailer, he raises his macana, and dealing a downward blow, strikes the latter to the earth: then hastens on after the others.
Nacena now knows for certain that they are pursued, as also who is the pursuer. She has heard the question asked by Aguara, recognising his voice; heard also the dull thud of his club as it descended on the skull of the unfortunate man; and now again hears the trampling of hoofs renewed and drawing nearer. She has still hold of Francesca’s hand, and for a moment debates within herself what is best to be done, and whether she should not release it, and turning show front to the pursuer.
Too late for that, or aught else likely to be of service either to herself or protégée. Before any resolve reaches her the cacique, is by their side; and flinging himself from his horse, grasps both by the wrists, wrenching asunder their joined hands. Then turning upon the Indian girl with a cry of rage—a curse in the Tovas tongue—he strikes her with his shut fist, inflicting a blow which sends her reeling to the earth. Before she can regain her feet he is once more upon his horse, and heading back for the tolderia—his recovered captive in his arms!