The Insurgent Chief

by Gustave Aimard

But it was not so; the Llano de Manso—the furthermost plains of which reached the banks of the Grand Chaco, the almost impregnable refuge of the Indian bravos, or of those whom the cruelty of the Spaniards had, after the dispersion of the missions founded by the Jesuits, thrown back into barbarism—is in some respects a neutral territory, where all the tribes, by a tacit understanding, had their rendezvous for hunting. It is incessantly traversed in all directions by warriors belonging to tribes the most hostile to each other, but who, when they meet on this privileged territory, forget for the time their rivalry or their hereditary hatred, to remember only the hospitality of the llano—that is to say, the freedom that each one ought to have to hunt or travel as he pleased.

The whites have but rarely, and at long intervals, penetrated into this country, and always with some apprehension; so much the more, as the Indians, continually beaten back by civilisation—feeling the importance of preserving this territory for themselves—defended its approaches with unspeakable fury, torturing and massacring without pity the whites whose curiosity or ill fortune brought into this region.

However, notwithstanding these apparently insurmountable difficulties, bold explorers have not been afraid to visit the llano, and to traverse it at their risk and peril, with the design of enriching the domain of science by interesting discoveries.

It is to them that the wood of which we have spoken, and which appears an oasis in this sea of sand, owes its charming name of Rincón del Bosquecillo, out of gratitude, no doubt, for the freshness they have found there, and the shelter that has been offered them after their long and fatiguing journey in the desert.

The sun was rapidly setting on the horizon, considerably lengthening the shadow of the rocks, bushes, and a few trees here and there scattered in the llano. The panthers already commenced to utter their hoarse and mournful growlings as they sought their drinking places; the jaguars bounded out of their dens with dull cries of anger, lashing with their powerful tails their panting sides; troops of wild oxen and horses fled frightened before these dreadful kings of the night, whom the first hours of evening rendered masters of the desert.

At the moment when the sun, having reached the level of the horizon, was drowned, so to say, in waves of purple and gold, a troop of horsemen appeared on the right bank of the Rio Bermejo, proceeding apparently towards the bank of which we have spoken, on the summit of which was the thick wood called the Rincón del Bosquecillo.

These horsemen were Indian Guaycurus, recognisable by their elegant costumes, by the band which circled their heads, and especially by the matchless grace with which they managed their horses—noble sons of the desert—as fiery and as untameable as their masters.

They formed a troop of about fifty men, all armed as warriors, and not having any tuft of ostrich feathers or streamers at the point of their lances—which showed that they were on some important expedition, and not united for the chase.

A little in advance of the troop were two men, chiefs, as was shown by the vulture's feather placed in their red bands, and whose external appearance contrasted strongly with that of their companions.

They wore variegated ponchos, trousers of brown holland, and boots made of leather from horse's legs. Their arms—laco bolas, lance and knives—were the same as those of their companions; but here the resemblance stopped.