Chapter Nineteen.
The “Lost Ball.”
Travellers on such an errand as that which is carrying the gaucho and his youthful companions across the Chaco, do not lie abed late; and they are up and stirring as the first streak of blue-grey light shows itself above the horizon.
Again a tiny fire is kindled; the kettle hung over it; and the matés, with the bombillas, called into requisition.
The breakfast is just as was their supper—cold mutton, corn bread, and yerba tea.
By the time they have despatched it, which they do in all haste, it is clear enough to permit of their taking up the trail they have been following. So, saddling their horses, they return to, and proceed along it.
As hitherto, it continues up the bank of the Pilcomayo, and at intervals they observe the tracks of Francesca’s pony, where they have not been trampled out by the other horses behind. And, as on the preceding day, they see the hoof-marks of the shod animal, both going and returning—the return track evidently the more recently made. They notice them, however, only up to a certain point—about twenty miles beyond the crossing-place of that tributary stream, now so full of sad interest to them. Here, in a grove of algarobias, they come upon the spot where those they are in pursuit of must have made their night bivouac; this told by some fragments of food lying scattered around, and the grass burnt in two places—large circular discs where their camp-fires had been kindled. The fires are out, and the ashes cold now; for that must have been two nights before.
Dismounting, they too make halt by the algarobia grove—partly to breathe their horses, which have been all the morning kept at top speed, through their anxiety to overtake the Indians—but more for the sake of giving examination to the abandoned camp, in the hope that something left there may lead to further elucidation of the crime and its causes; possibly enable them to determine, beyond doubt, who have been its perpetrators.
At first nothing is found to give them the slightest clue; only the ashes and half-burned faggots of the fires, with some bits of sipos—which have been cut from creeping plants entwining the trees overhead—the corresponding pieces, in all likelihood, having been used as rope tackle for some purpose the gaucho cannot guess. These, and the fragments of food already referred to, with some bones of birds clean picked, and the shells of a half-score ostrich eggs, are all the débris they can discover.
But none of these items give any indication as to who made bivouac there; beyond the fact, already understood and unquestioned, that they were Indians, with the further certainty of their having stayed on the spot over-night; this shown by the grass pressed down where their bodies had lain astretch; as also the circular patches browsed bare by their horses, around the picket pins which had held them.
Indians certainly; but of what tribe there is nothing on that spot to tell—neither sign nor token.
So concluding, Cypriano and Ludwig have climbed back into their saddles—the former terribly impatient to proceed—but Gaspar still stays afoot, holding his horse by the bridle at long reach, and leading the animal about from place to place, as if not yet satisfied with the search they have made. For there are spots where the grass is long, and the ground rough, overgrown also with weeds and bushes. Possibly among these he may yet discover something.
And something he does discover—a globe-shaped object lying half-hid among the weeds, about the size and colour of a cricket ball. This to you, young reader; for Gaspar knows nothing of your national game. But he knows everything about balls of another kind—the bolas—that weapon, without which a South American gaucho would feel as a crusader of the olden time lacking half his armour.
And it is a bola that lies before him; though one of a peculiar kind, as he sees after stooping and taking it up. A round stone covered with cow’s skin; this stretched and sewed over it tight as that on a tennis ball.
But to the bola there is no cord attached, nor mark of where one has ever been. For there never has been such, as Gaspar at a glance perceives. Well knows the gaucho that the ball he holds in his hand has not been one of a pair strung together—as with the ordinary bolas—nor of three in like manner united, as is sometimes the case; but a bola, for still it is a bola, of a sort different from either, both in its make and the mode of using it, as also the effect it is designed to produce.
“What is it, Gaspar?” simultaneously interrogate the two, as they see him so closely examining the thing he has picked up. At the same time they turn their horses’ heads towards him.
“Una bola perdida.”
“Ah! a ball the Indians have left behind—lost, you mean.”
“No, señoritos; I don’t mean that, exactly. Of course, the redskins have left it behind, and so lost it. But that isn’t the reason of my calling it a bola perdida.”
“Why, then, Caspar?” asks Ludwig, with the hereditary instincts of the savant, like his father, curious about all such things. “Why do you call it a lost ball?”
“Because that’s the name we gauchos give it, and the name by which it is known among those who make use of it—these Chaco Indians.”
“And pray, what do they use it for? I never heard of the thing. What is its purpose?”
“One for which, I hope, neither it nor any of its sort will ever be employed upon us. The Virgin forbid! For it is no child’s toy, I can assure you, señoritos; but a most murderous weapon. I’ve witnessed its effects more than once—seen it flung full thirty yards, and hit a spot not bigger than the breadth of my hand; the head of a horse, crushing in the animal’s skull as if done by a club of quebracha. Heaven protect me, and you too, muchachos, from ever getting struck by a bola perdida!”
“But why a lost ball?” asks Ludwig, with curiosity still unsatisfied.
“Oh! that’s plain enough,” answers the gaucho. “As you see, when once launched there’s no knowing where it may roll to; and often gets lost in the long grass or among bushes; unlike the ordinary bolas, which stick to the thing aimed at—that is, if thrown as they should be.”
“What do you make of its being found here?” interrogates Cypriano, more interested about the ball in a sense different from the curiosity felt by his cousin.
“Much,” answers Caspar, looking grave, but without offering explanation; for he seems busied with some calculation, or conjecture.
“Indeed!” simultaneously exclaim the others, with interest rekindled, Cypriano regarding him with earnest glance.
“Yes, indeed, young masters,” proceeds the gaucho. “The thing I now hold in my hand has once, and not very long ago, been in the hands of a Tovas Indian!”
“A Tovas!” exclaims Cypriano, excitedly. “What reason have you for thinking so?”
“The best of all reasons. Because, so far as is known to me, no other Chaco Indians but they use the bola perdida. That ball has been handled, mislaid, and left here behind by a Tovas traitor. You are right, señorito,” he adds, speaking to Cypriano. “Whoever may have murdered my poor master, your uncle, Aguara is he who has carried off your cousin.”
“Let us on!” cries Cypriano, without another word. “O, Ludwig!” he adds, “we mustn’t lose a moment, nor make the least delay. Think of dear Francesca in the power of that savage beast. What may he not do with her?”
Ludwig needs no such urging to lead him on. His heart of brother is boiling with rage, as that of son almost broken by grief; and away ride they along the trail, with more haste and greater earnestness than ever.