Chapter Thirty Two.
Stopped by a “Riacho.”
For a time the trackers remain at halt, but without forsaking their saddles, pondering upon what course they should pursue, or rather, what direction they ought to take.
Only a short while are they undecided. It seems good as certain that the Indians have kept to the river, for some distance further on, at all events. Therefore, it will be time enough to enter upon a more prolonged deliberation, when they come to a point where this certainty ceases. Thus reflecting, they start off afresh, with their horses’ heads as before.
Going at good speed as ever, in a few minutes they arrive at the confluence of the arroyo with the greater river; the former here running between banks less “bluffy” than above, where it passes the cavern. Still they are of sufficient elevation to make a sharp descent towards the channel of the stream, and a corresponding ascent on its opposite side. But instead of an impediment, the trackers find this an advantage; giving them evidence that the Indians have gone across the arroyo. For their horses’ tracks are distinctly traceable on the steep faces of both banks; the dust either not having settled there, or been washed off by the rain which fell after.
Without difficulty they themselves ride across; for the rapid-running stream has returned to its ordinary dimensions, and is now quite shallow, with a firm gravelly bed. Once on its western side, however, and up to the level of the campo beyond, they are again at fault; in fact, have reached the point spoken of where all certainty is at an end. Far as they can see before them, the surface is smeared with mud, just as behind, and no sign of a trail visible anywhere. Like enough the Indians have still continued on along the river, but that is by no means sure. They may have turned up the arroyo, or struck off across the pampa, on some route known to them, and perhaps leading more direct to whatever may be their destination.
It is all conjecture now; and upon this they must rely. But the weight of probability is in favour of the pursued party having kept to the river, and Gaspar is of this opinion. After riding some distance up the western bank of the arroyo, and seeing no trail or track there, he again returns to where they had crossed, saying:—
“I think we may safely stick to the river. I’m acquainted with its course for at least thirty leagues further up. At about half that distance from here it makes a big elbow, and just there, I remember, an old Indian path strikes off from it, to cross a traveria. Ha! that’s good as sure to be the route these redskins have taken. For now, I think of it, the path was a big, broad road, and must have been much-travelled by Indians of some kind or other. So, muchachos; we can’t do better than keep on to where it parts from the water’s edge. Possibly on the traveria, which chances to be a salitral as well, we may find the ground clear of this detestable stuff, and once more hit off the rastro of these murderous robbers.”
His young companions, altogether guided by his counsels, of course offer no objection; and off they again go up the bank of the broad deep river.
Nor less swiftly do they speed, but fast as ever. For they are not impeded by the necessity of constantly keeping their eyes upon the earth, to see if there be hoof-marks on it. There are none; or if any, they are not distinguishable through the thick stratum of slime spread over all the surface. But although going at a gallop, they do not get over much ground; being every now and then compelled to pull up—meeting obstructions they had not reckoned upon. These in the shape of numerous little streamlets, flowing into the river, most of them still in freshet from the late rain. One after another they ford them, none being so deep as to call for swimming. But they at length come upon one of greater depth and breadth than any yet passed, and with banks of such a character as to bring them to a dead stop, with the necessity of considering whether it can be crossed at all. For it is a watercourse of the special kind called riachos, resembling the bayous of Louisiana, whose sluggish currents run in either direction, according to the season of the year, whether it be flood-time or during the intervals of drought.
At a glance, Gaspar perceives that the one now barring their onward progress is too deep to be waded; and if it be possible to pass over it, this must be by swimming. Little would they regard that, nor any more would their animals; since the pampas horse can swim like an otter, or capivara. But, unfortunately, this particular riacho is of a kind which forbids even their swimming it; as almost at the same glance, the gaucho observes, with a grunt expressing his discontent. On the stream’s further shore, the bank, instead of being on a level with the water surface, or gently shelving away from it, rises abruptly to a height of nigh six feet, with no break, far as can be seen, either upward or downward. Any attempt to swim a horse to the other side, would result in his being penned up, as within the lock-gates of a canal!
It is plainly impossible for them to cross over there; and, without waiting to reflect further, the gaucho so pronounces it; saying to the others, who have remained silently watching him:—
“Well, we’ve got over a good many streams in our morning’s ride, but this one beats us. We can’t set foot on the other side—not here, at all events.”
“Why?” demands Cypriano.
“Because, as you can see, señorito, that water’s too deep for wading.”
“But what of that? We can swim it, can’t we?”
“True, we could; all that and more, so far as the swimming goes. But once in there, how are we to get out again? Look at yonder bank. Straight up as a wall, and so smooth a cat couldn’t climb it, much less our horses; and no more ourselves. If ’twere a matter of wading we might; but, as I can see, all along yonder edge it’s just as deep as in mid-stream; and failing to get out, we’d have to keep on plunging about, possibly in the end to go under. Carramba! we mustn’t attempt to make a crossing here.”
“Where then?” demands Cypriano, in torture at this fresh delay, which may last he knows not how long.
“Well,” rejoins the gaucho, reflectingly, “I think I know of a place where we may manage it. There’s a ford which can’t be very far from this; but whether it’s above or below, for the life of me I can’t tell, everything’s so changed by that detestable tormenta, and the ugly coat of plaster it has laid over the plain! Let me see,” he adds, alternately turning his eyes up stream and down, “I fancy it must be above; and now I recollect there was a tall tree, a quebracha, not far from the ford. Ha!” he exclaims, suddenly catching sight of it, “there’s the bit of timber itself! I can tell it by that broken branch on the left side. You see that, don’t you, hijos mios?”
They do see the top of a solitary tree with one branch broken off, rising above the plain at about two miles’ distance; and they can tell it to be the well-known species called quebracha—an abbreviation of quebrahacha, or “axe-breaker,” so named from the hardness of its wood.
“Whether it be by wading or swimming,” Gaspar remarks in continuance, “we’ll get over the riacho up yonder, not far from that tree. So, let’s on to it, señoritos!”
Without another word, they all wheel their horses about, and move off in the direction of the quebracha.