Chapter Thirty Eight.
A Counterfeit Crane.
Gaspar allows no time to be lost, but instantly commences taking measures for the garzoneando—whatever that may be. As yet neither of his young companions has been told what it is, though they soon begin to have a guess.
While they stand watching, they see him once more plunge his hand into those capacious saddle-bags, where for a time it rummages about. When drawn out again, it is seen to grasp a folded bundle of soft goods, which, on being shaken open, shows to be a shirt. No common cotton thing, however, but an affair of the finest linen, snow-white, with an embroidered bosom and ruffles; in short, his gala shirt, such as are worn by gauchos when they appear at fiestas and fandangoes.
“A pity to use my best camisa for such a purpose,” he observes, while in the act of unfolding it. “Still it won’t likely get much damage; and a wash, with a bit of starch, will set it all right again.”
Then turning to Cypriano, he adds, “Now, señorito; be good enough to strip off everything, and draw this over your shoulders.”
Without a word of protest, or objection, the young Paraguayan does as requested, and is soon inside the holiday shirt; his own having been laid aside, as also his jaqueta, calzoneras, and every other article of dress worn by him.
Meanwhile, Gaspar has been engaged getting ready several other things for the change of costume intended; one of these being a silk handkerchief of a bright scarlet colour, also taken out of the inexhaustible alparejas. This he ties about Cypriano’s neck, not as an ordinary cravat, but loosely folded, so as to expose a breadth of several inches all round.
The gaucho’s next move is to snatch from off the fire one of the faggots still only half consumed; from which with his knife he scrapes the red coal, leaving the surface black, at the same time paring the stick to a sharp point. With some wet gunpowder he further blackens it; then placing the thick end against Cypriano’s forehead, he binds it fast with a piece of raw-hide thong, the last carried around and firmly knotted at the back of the neck.
A few more touches and the toilet is complete; transforming Cypriano into what, at a distance, might be supposed a soldier-crane! At all events, the ostriches will so suppose him, as Gaspar knows; for he is but copying a scheme often practised by South American Indians for the capture of these shy birds.
“Muy bien!” he exclaims, as he stands contemplating his finished task. “By my word, muchacho mio, you look the character to perfection. And if you act it cleverly, as I know you can and will, we’ll make breakfast on something better than beans. Now, señorito; you’re in costume to go garzoneando.”
Long ere this, Cypriano has come to comprehend what is required of him, and is quite eager to have a try at the ruse so cunningly contrived. Declaring himself ready to start out, it but remains to be decided what weapon he ought to take with him. For they have the three kinds—gun, bolas, and lazo; and in the use of the two last he is almost as skilled as the gaucho himself.
“The gun might be the readiest and surest,” remarks Gaspar; “and it will be as well to have one with you, in case of your not getting a good chance to cast either of the others. But just now the less noise that’s made the better. Who knows, but that some of these traitorous redskins may be still straggling about? Hearing shots they’d be sure to come up to us; which we don’t want, though ever so much wishing to come up with them. Therefore, I say, use either the balls or the rope.”
“All the same to me,” observes the young Paraguayan. “Which do you think the better?”
“The bolas, decidedly. I’ve known the lazo slip over an ostrich’s head, after the noose had been round its neck. But once the cord of the bolas gets a turn round the creature’s shanks, it’ll go to grass without making another stride. Take this set of mine. As you see, they’re best boliadores, and you can throw them with surer aim.”
The weapon which the gaucho hands to him differs from the ordinary bolas, in having a longer stretch of cord between the balls; but Cypriano is himself as well acquainted with this kind as with the other, and can cast them as skilfully. Taking hold of the weapon, along with his double-barrelled gun, and concealing both as he best can under the gaucho’s shirt, he starts off upon the stalk; for he now knows what he has to do, without any further instruction from Gaspar. It is simply a question of getting near enough to one of the birds to make capture of it with the boliadores; or, failing this, bring it down with a bullet—one barrel of his gun being loaded with ball.
As he goes off, Caspar and Ludwig looking after him can see that his chances of success are good. For by this the rheas have pretty well recovered from their scare, and are again tranquilly striding about. Moreover, they have moved somewhat nearer to the bank of the riacho, where a bordering of leafy evergreens offers to the stalker cover of the best kind. Taking advantage of it, he, in the guise of a garzon, steps briskly on, and steals in among the bushes. There he is for a time unseen, either by those watching him from the summit of the knoll, or the creatures being stalked. The latter have already noticed the counterfeit, but without showing any signs of fear; no doubt supposing it to be what it pretends—a bird as themselves, with neck and legs as long as their own. But no enemy; for often have they passed over that same plain, and fed in a friendly way alongside soldier-cranes—scores of them. Even when this solitary specimen again appears by the skirting of the scrub within less than twenty paces of them, they do not seem at all alarmed, though possibly a little surprised at its being there all alone.
Nor do they make any attempt to stir from the spot, till a movement on the part of the garzon, with some gestures that seem odd to them, excite their suspicions afresh; then raising their heads, and craning out their long necks, they regard it with wondering glances. Only for an instant; when seeming at last to apprehend danger, the birds utter a hiss, as if about to beat a retreat.
For one of them it is too late, the cock, which chances to be nearest the bushes, and who before he can lift a leg feels both embraced by something which lashes them tightly together; while at the same time something else hits him a hard heavy blow, bowling him over upon the grass, where he lies stunned and senseless.
“Bueno! Bravo!” simultaneously shout Gaspar and Ludwig, the two together rushing down from the hillock, and on for the prostrate rhea; while the counterfeit crane comes forth from the bushes to meet them, as he draws near, saying:—
“I could have shot the hen, but for what you said, Gaspar, about making a noise.”
“No matter for the hen,” rejoins the gaucho. “We don’t want her just now. This beauty will not only give us enough meat for breakfast, but provide dinners and suppers for at least a couple of days to come.”
So saying, he draws his knife across the rhea’s throat, to make sure before releasing its legs from the thong. After which the boliadores are detached; and the huge carcase, almost as heavy as that of a fatted calf, is carried in triumph to the camp.