Chapter Forty Two.
Picking up Pearls.
From their new point of departure, the trackers have no difficulty about the direction; this traced out for them, as plain as if a row of finger-posts, twenty yards apart, were set across the salitral. For at least a league ahead they can distinguish the white list, where the saline efflorescence has been turned up, and scattered about by the hoofs of the Indian horses.
They can tell by the trail that over this portion of their route the party they are in pursuit of has not ridden in any compact or regular order, but straggled over a wide space; so that, here and there, the tracks of single horses show separate and apart. In the neighbourhood of an enemy the Indians of the Chaco usually march under some sort of formation; and Gaspar, knowing this, draws the deduction that those who have latest passed over the salitral must have been confident that no enemy was near—either in front or following them. Possibly, also, their experience of the tormenta, which must have been something terrible on that exposed plain, had rendered them careless as to their mode of marching.
Whatever the cause, they now, taking up their trail, do not pause to speculate upon it, nor make any delay. On the contrary, as hounds that have several times lost the scent, hitherto faint, but once more recovered, and now fresher and stronger than ever, they press on with ardour not only renewed, but heightened.
All at once, however, a shout from Cypriano interrupts the rapidity of their progress—in short, bringing them to a halt—he himself suddenly reigning up as he gives utterance to it. Gaspar and Ludwig turn simultaneously towards him for an explanation. While their glances hitherto have been straying far forward, he has been giving his habitually to the ground more immediately under his horse’s head, and to both sides of the broad trail; his object being to ascertain if among the many tracks of the Indians’ horses, those of Francesca’s pony are still to be seen.
And sure enough he sees the diminutive hoof-marks plainly imprinted—not at one particular place, but every here and there as they go galloping along. It is not this, however, which elicited his cry, and caused him to come so abruptly to a stop. Instead, something which equally interests, while more surely proclaiming the late presence of the girl, in that place, with the certainty of her being carried along a captive. He has caught sight of an object which lies glistening among the white powder of the salitré—whitish itself, but of a more lustrous sheen. Pearls—a string of them, as it proves upon closer inspection! At a glance he recognises an ornament well-known to him, as worn by his girlish cousin; Ludwig also, soon as he sees it, crying out:—
“It’s sister’s necklet!”
Gaspar, too, remembers it; for pearls are precious things in the eyes of a gaucho, whose hat often carries a band of such, termed the toquilla.
Cypriano, flinging himself from his saddle, picks the necklace up, and holds it out for examination. It is in no way injured, the string still unbroken, and has no doubt dropped to the ground by the clasp coming undone. But there are no traces of a struggle having taken place, nor sign that any halt had been made on that spot. Instead, the pony’s tracks, there distinctly visible, tell of the animal having passed straight on without stop or stay. In all likelihood, the catch had got loosened at the last halting-place in that conflict with the storm, but had held on till here.
Thus concluding, and Cypriano remounting, they continue onward along the trail, the finding of the pearls having a pleasant effect upon their spirits. For it seems a good omen, as if promising that they may yet find the one who had worn them, as also be able to deliver her from captivity.
Exhilarated by the hope, they canter briskly on; and for several leagues meet nothing more to interrupt them; since that which next fixes their attention, instead of staying, but lures them onward—the tops of tall trees, whose rounded crowns and radiating fronds tell that they are palms.
It still lacks an hour of sunset, when these begin to show over the brown waste, and from this the trackers know they are nearing the end of the travesia. Cheered by the sight, they spur their horses to increased speed, and are soon on the edge of the salitral; beyond, seeing a plain where the herbage is green, as though no dust-storm had flown over it. Nor had there, for the tormenta, like cyclones and hurricanes, is often local, its blast having a well-defined border.
Riding out upon this tract—more pleasant for a traveller—they make a momentary halt, but still remaining in their saddles, as they gaze inquiringly over it.
And here Cypriano, recalling a remark which Gaspar had made at their last camping-place, asks an explanation of it. The gaucho had expressed a belief, that from something he remembered, they would not have much further to go before arriving at their journey’s end.
“Why did you say that?” now questions the young Paraguayan.
“Because I’ve heard the old cacique, Naraguana, speak of a place where they buried their dead. Strange my not thinking of that sooner; but my brains have been so muddled with what’s happened, and the hurry we’ve been in all along, I’ve forgotten a good many things. He said they had a town there too, where they sometimes went to live, but oftener to die. I warrant me that’s the very place they’re in now; and, from what I understood him to say, it can’t be very far t’other side this salitral. He spoke of a hill rising above the town, which could be seen a long way off: a curious hill, shaped something like a wash-basin turned bottom upwards. Now, if we could only sight that hill.”
At this he ceases speaking, and elevates his eyes, with an interrogative glance which takes in all the plain ahead, up to the horizon’s verge. Only for a few seconds is he silent, when his voice is again heard, this time in grave, but gleeful, exclamation:—
“Por todos Santos! there’s the hill itself!”
The others looking out behold a dome-shaped eminence, with a flat, table-like top recognisable from the quaint description Gaspar has just given of it, though little more than its summit is visible above the plain—for they are still several miles distant from it.
“We must go no nearer to it now,” observes the gaucho, adding, in a tone of apprehension, “we may be too near already. Caspita! Just look at that!”
The last observation refers to the sun, which, suddenly shooting out from the clouds hitherto obscuring it, again shows itself in the sky. Not now, however, as in the early morning hours, behind their backs, but right in front of them, and low down, threatening soon to set.
“Vayate!” he continues to ejaculate in a tone of mock scorn, apostrophising the great luminary, “no thanks to you now, showing yourself when you’re not needed. Instead, I’d thank you more if you’d kept your face hid a bit longer. Better for us if you had.”
“Why better?” asks Cypriano, who, as well as Ludwig, has been listening with some surprise to the singular monologue. “What harm can the sun do us now more than ever?”
“Because now, more than ever, he’s shining inopportunely, both as to time and place.”
“In what way?”
“In a way to show us to eyes we don’t want to see us just yet. Look at that hill yonder. Supposing now, just by chance, any of the Indians should be idling upon it, or they have a vidette up there. Bah! what am I babbling about? He couldn’t see us if they had; not here, unless through a telescope, and I don’t think the Tovas are so far civilised as to have that implement among their chattels. For all, we’re not safe on this exposed spot, and the sooner we’re off it the better. Some of them may be out scouting in this direction. Come, let us get under cover, and keep so till night’s darkness gives us a still safer screen against prying eyes. Thanks to the Virgin! yonder’s the very place for our purpose.”
He points to a clump of trees, around the stems of which appears a dense underwood; and, soon as signalling this, he rides toward and into it, the others after him.
Once inside the copse, and for the time feeling secure against observation, they hold a hasty counsel as to which step they ought next to take. From the sight of that oddly-shaped hill, and what Caspar remembers Naraguana to have said, they have no doubt of its being the same referred to by the old chief, and that the sacred town of the Tovas is somewhere beside it. So much they feel sure of, their doubts being about the best way for them to approach the place and enter the town, as also the most proper time. And with these doubts are, of course, mingled many fears; though with these, strange to say, Ludwig, the youngest and least experienced of the three, is the least troubled. Under the belief, as they all are, that Naraguana is still living, his confidence in the friendship of the aged cacique has throughout remained unshaken. When the latter shall be told of all that has transpired; how his palefaced friend and protégé met his death by the assassin’s hand—how the daughter of that friend has been carried off—surely he will not refuse restitution, even though it be his own people who have perpetrated the double crime?
Reasoning thus, Ludwig counsels their riding straight on to the Indian town, and trusting to the good heart of Naraguana—throwing themselves upon his generosity, Cypriano is equally eager to reach the place, where he supposes his dear cousin Francesca to be pining as a prisoner; but holds a very different opinion about the prudence of the step, and less believes in the goodness of Naraguana. To him all Indians seem treacherous—Tovas Indians more than any—for before his mental vision he has ever the image of Aguara, and can think of none other.
As for the gaucho, though formerly one of Naraguana’s truest friends, from what has happened, his faith in the integrity of the old Tovas chief is greatly shaken. Besides, the caution, habitual to men of his calling and kind, admonishes him against acting rashly now, and he but restates his opinion: that they will do best to remain under cover of the trees, at least till night’s darkness comes down. Of course this is conclusive, and it is determined that they stay.
Dismounting, they make fast their horses to some branches, and sit down beside them—en bivouac. But in this camp they kindle no fire, nor make any noise, conversing only in whispers. One passing the copse could hear no sound inside it, save the chattering of a flock of macaws, who have their roosting-place amid the tops of its tallest trees.