Chapter Twenty Five.
A Rush for Shelter.
It is scarce necessary to say, that the storm that over took the Indian party was the same of which the barometer-tree had given warning to Gaspar and his young companions. But although many a long league separated the Indians from those following upon their trail, and it would take the latter at least another day to reach the spot where the former had met the tormenta, both were beset by it within less than half-an-hour of the same time. The Indians first, of course, since it came from the quarter towards which all were travelling, and therefore in the teeth of pursuers as pursued.
But the trackers were not called upon to sustain its shock, as those they were tracking up. Instead of its coming upon them in an exposed situation, before its first puffs became felt they were safe out of harm’s way, having found shelter within the interior of a cavern. It was this Gaspar alluded to when saying, he knew of a place that would give them an asylum. For the gaucho had been twice over this ground before—once on a hunting excursion in the company of his late master; and once at an earlier period of his life on an expedition of less pleasant remembrance, when, as a captive himself, he was carried up the Pilcomayo by a party of Guaycuru Indians, from whom he was fortunate in making escape.
His knowledge of the cave’s locality, however, was not obtained during his former and forced visit to the district they are now traversing; but in that made along with the hunter-naturalist; who, partly out of curiosity, but more for geological investigation, had entered and explored it.
“It’s by the bank of a little arroyo that runs into the Pilcomayo, some three or four miles above the big river. And, as I take it, not much further from where we are now. But we must make a cross-cut to reach it in the quickest time.”
This Gaspar says as they part from the barometer-tree. Following out his intention he heads his horse towards the open plain, and forsakes the Indian trail, the others following his lead.
They now go in full gallop, fast as their horses can carry them; for they have no longer any doubts about the coming on of a tormenta. The forecast given them by the flowers of the üinay is gradually being made good by what they see—a dun yellowish cloud rising against the horizon ahead. The gaucho well understands the sign, soon as he sees this recognising it as the dreaded dust-storm.
It approaches them just as it had done the Indians. First the atmosphere becoming close and hot as the interior of an oven; then suddenly changing to cold, with gusts of wind, and the sky darkening as though the sun were eclipsed.
But, unlike the others, they are not exposed to the full fury of the blast; neither are they in danger of being blinded by the sulphureous dust, nor pelted with sticks and stones. Before the storm has thus developed itself they reach the crest of the cliff overhanging the arroyo; and urging their horses down a sloping path remembered by Gaspar, they get upon the edge of the stream itself. Then, turning up it, and pressing on for another hundred yards, they arrive at the cavern’s mouth, just as the first puff of the chilly wind sweeps down the deep rut-like valley through which the arroyo runs.
“In time!” exclaims the gaucho. “Thanks to the Virgin, we’re in time! with not a second to spare,” he adds, dismounting, and leading his horse into the arching entrance, the others doing the same.
Once inside, however, they do not give way to inaction; for Gaspar well knows they are not yet out of danger.
“Come, muchachos,” he cries to them, soon as they have disposed of their animals, “there’s something more to be done before we can call ourselves safe. A tormenta’s not a thing to be trifled with. There isn’t corner or cranny in this cave the dust wouldn’t reach to. It could find its way into a corked bottle, I believe. Carramba! there it comes!”
The last words are spoken as a whiff of icy wind, now blowing furiously down the ravine, turns into the cavern’s mouth, bringing with it both dust and dry leaves.
For a moment the gaucho stands in the entrance gazing out; the others doing likewise. Little can they see; for the darkness is now almost opaque, save at intervals, when the ravine is lit up by jets of forked and sheet lightning. But much do they hear; the loud bellowing of wind, the roaring of thunder, and the almost continuous crashing of trees, whose branches break off as though they were but brittle glass. And the stream which courses past close to the cave’s mouth, now a tiny mulct, will soon be a raging, foaming torrent, as Gaspar well knows.
They stay not to see that, nor aught else. They have other work before them—the something of which the gaucho spoke, and to which he now hastily turns, crying out—
“Your ponchos, my lads! Get them, quick! We must close up the entrance with them, otherwise we’ll stand a good chance of being smothered. Vaya!”
Neither needs urging to haste. Young as they are, they too have had experience of a tormenta. More than once they have witnessed it, remembering how in their house, near Assuncion, it drove the dust through the keyholes of me doors, finding its way into every crack and crevice, making ridges across the floor, just as snow in northern lands—of which, however, they know nothing, save from what they have read, or been told by one who will tell them of such things no more.
In a few seconds’ time, three ponchos—for each possesses one—are snatched from the cantles of their saddles, and as speedily spread across the entrance of the cave—just covering it, with not an inch to spare. With like speed and dexterity, they join them together, in a rough but firm stitching done by the nimble fingers of the gaucho—his thread a strip of thong, and for needle the sharp terminal spine of the pita plant—one of which he finds growing near by. They attach them at top by their knife blades stuck into seams of the stratified rock, and at bottom by stones laid along the border; these heavy enough to keep them in place against the strongest gust of wind.
All this done, they breathe freely, now feeling secure; and after a last look at the screen to assure himself of its being reliable, the gaucho turns to his companions, quietly remarking, “Now, muchachos, I fancy we need have no more fear of Mr Tormenta.”