Chapter Twenty Two.
The Barometer-Tree.
After passing the biscachera, the trackers have not proceeded far, when Caspar again reins up with eyes lowered to the ground. The others seeing this, also bring their horses to a stand; then watch the gaucho, who is apparently engaged with a fresh inspection of the trail.
“Have you found anything else?” asks Cypriano.
“No, señorito. Instead, I’ve lost something.”
“What?” inquire both, in a breath.
“I don’t any longer see the tracks of that shod horse. I mean the big one we know nothing about. The pony’s are here, but as for the other, they’re missing.”
All three now join in a search for them, riding slowly along the trail, and in different directions backward and forward. But after some minutes thus passed, their search proves fruitless; no shod hoof-print, save that of the pony, to be seen.
“This accounts for it,” mutters Caspar, giving up the quest, and speaking as to himself.
“Accounts for what?” demands Cypriano, who has overheard him.
“The return tracks we saw on the other side of the camp ground. I mean the freshest of them, that went over the ford of the stream. Whoever rode that horse, whether red or white man, has parted from the Indians at their camping-place, no doubt after staying all night with them. Ha! there’s something at the back of all this; somebody behind Aguara and his Indians—that very somebody I’ve been guessing at. He—to a dead certainty.”
The last sentences are not spoken aloud; for as yet he has not confided his suspicions about Francia and Valdez to his youthful comrades.
“No matter about this shod horse and his back-track,” he continues, once more heading his own animal to the trail. “We’ve now only to do with those that have gone forward, and forward let us haste.”
While speaking he strikes his ponderous spurs against his horse’s ribs, setting him into a canter, the others starting off at the same pace.
For nearly an hour they continue this rate of speed, the conspicuous trail enabling them to travel rapidly and without interruption. It still carries them up the Pilcomayo, though not always along the river’s immediate bank. At intervals it touches the water’s edge, at others parting from it; the deflections due to “bluffs” which here and there impinge upon the stream, leaving no room for path between it and their bases.
When nearing one of these, of greater elevation than common, Gaspar again draws his horse to a halt; though it cannot be the cliff which has caused him to do so. His eyes are not on it, but turned on a tree, which stands at some distance from the path they are pursuing, out upon the open plain. It is one of large size, and light green foliage, the leaves pinnate, bespeaking it of the order leguminosae. It is in fact one of the numerous species of mimosas, or sensitive plants, common on the plains and mountains of South America, and nowhere in greater number, or variety, than in the region of the Gran Chaco.
Ludwig and Cypriano have, in the meantime, also drawn up; and turning towards the tree at which Caspar is gazing, they see its long slender branches covered with clusters of bright yellow flowers, these evidently the object of his attention. There is something about them that calls for his closer scrutiny; since after a glance or two, he turns his horse’s head towards the tree, and rides on to it.
Arrived under its branches, he raises his hand aloft, plucks off a spray of the flowers, and dismounting, proceeds to examine it with curious minuteness, as if a botanist endeavouring to determine its genus or species! But he has no thought of this; for he knows the tree well, knows it to possess certain strange properties, one of which has been his reason for riding up to it, and acting as he now does.
The other two have also drawn near; and dismounting, hold their horses in hand while they watch him with wondering eyes. One of them cries out—
“What now, Caspar? Why are you gathering those flowers?” It is Cypriano who speaks, impatiently adding, “Remember, our time is precious.”
“True, master,” gravely responds the gaucho; “but however precious it is, we may soon have to employ it otherwise than in taking up a trail. If this tree tells truth, we’ll have enough on our hands to take care of ourselves, without thinking of Indians.”
“What mean you?” both interrogated together.
“Come hither, señoritos, and set your eyes on these flowers!”
Thus requested they comply, leading their horses nearer to the tree.
“Well?” exclaims Cypriano, “I see nothing in them; that is, nothing that strikes me as being strange.”
“But I do,” says Ludwig, whose father had given him some instruction in the science of botany. “I observe that the corollas are well nigh closed, which they should not be at this hour of the day, if the tree is in a healthy condition. It’s the üinay; I know it well. We have passed several on the way as we started this morning, but I noticed none with the flowers thus shrivelled up.”
“Stand still a while,” counsels Gaspar, “and watch them.”
They do as desired, and see what greatly surprises them. At least Cypriano is surprised; for the young Paraguayan, unlike his half-German cousin, unobservant of Nature generally, has never given a thought to any of its particular phenomena; and that now presented to his gaze is one of the strangest. For while they stand watching the üinay, its flowers continue to close their corollas, the petals assuming a shrunk, withered appearance.
The gaucho’s countenance seems to take its cue from them, growing graver as he stands contemplating the change.
“Por Dios!” he at length exclaims, “if that tree be speaking truth, and I never knew of the üinay telling lies, we’ll have a storm upon us within twenty minutes’ time; such a one as will sweep us out of our saddles, if we can’t get under shelter. Ay, sure it’s going to be either a temporal or tormenta! And this is not the where to meet it. Here we’d be smothered in a minute, if not blown up into the sky. Stay! I think I know of a place near by, where we may take refuge before it’s down upon us. Quick, muchachos! Mount, and let us away from here. A moment lost, and it may be too late; vamonos!”
Leaping back into their saddles, all three again go off in a gallop; no longer upon the Indian trail, but in a somewhat different direction, the gaucho guiding and leading.