At about twenty leagues from the spot where the Guaycurus had stopped till the hottest part of the day had passed—in the centre of a vast valley, crowned on all sides by the snowy and inaccessible peaks of the Cordillera—Don Pablo Pincheyra had established his camp.
This camp, placed near the source of two rivers, was not provisional, but permanent; so it rather resembled a town than a bivouac of soldiers. The huts—made in the Indian fashion, in the form of toldos, with stakes crossed at the top, and covered with leather from the hides of cows and mares—affected a kind of symmetry in their position, forming streets, squares, and crossways, having corrals, filled with oxen and horses. Some of them had little gardens, where were grown, as well as it could be done considering the region of the climate, a few kitchen herbs.
In the centre of the camp were the toldos of the officers, and of the four brothers Pincheyra—toldos, better built, better furnished, and much cleaner than those of the soldiers.
Entrance could only be had into the valley where the camp was established by two narrow canyons, situated one at the east, and the other at the southwest of the camp; but these two canyons were so fortified by means of heaps of wood massed together, apparently pell-mell, but perfectly arranged nevertheless, that any attempt to force the double entry of these canyons would have been vain. The sentinels planted there, however—their eyes fixed on the windings of the defiles—watched attentively over the common safety, while their companions, withdrawn under their toldos, lounged at their occupations with an easy carelessness which showed they were certain they had no serious danger to fear.
The toldo of Don Pablo Pincheyra was easy to recognise at the first glance. Two sentinels paced before it, and several horses, saddled and ready to be mounted, were attached to pickets at some paces from the door, over which, from a long lance fixed in the ground, floated majestically the Spanish flag, in the inconstant play of the fresh morning breeze. Women—amongst whom several were young and pretty, though their features were for the most part tarnished by sorrow and excessive labour—traversed the streets of the camp, carrying water, wood, or provisions; some at the entrance of the toldos were occupied in the cares of the house; and soldiers mounted on strong horses, and armed with long lances, drove the animals out of the corrals, and led them to the pasturage outside the camp. In fact, all was bustle and animation in this strange repair of the bandits, who called themselves the royal army; and yet, through all this excitement and apparent disorder it was easy to recognise a regulating mind, and a powerful will which directed all, without ever meeting objection or even hesitation on the part of the subordinates.
At the moment we enter the camp a man wearing the costume of the Gauchos of the Pampas Of Buenos Aires, lifted the frazada, a covering serving for a door to a toldo, built with some regularity, and after having cast around him a curious and anxious look, he left the toldo, though with some hesitation, and entered the street.
Like all the inhabitants of this singular centre of population, this man was armed to the teeth, with a sabre which hung at his left side, a pair of long pistols passed through his girdle, a knife with a straight blade fixed on his right polena, and the horn handle of which rested on his thigh, and a double-barrelled gun, which was thrown on his shoulder.
Notwithstanding this formidable arsenal which he carried with him, the man of whom we speak appeared by no means at his ease. His hesitating walk, the furtive glances which he continually threw around him—all denoted a misgiving which he tried vainly to conceal, but which he could not succeed in conquering.
"Parbleu!" murmured he, in a low voice, "I am an idiot, upon my honour! One man is as good as another; and if it should come to blows, it must. If I am killed—well, so much the better, for then all will be over. I should like that the more, as this absurd existence begins to weigh heavily on me. Never mind, I doubt whether Salvator Rosa, when he was among the brigands, ever saw such a complete collection of bandits as those with whom I have had the happiness of living for the last two months. What magnificent vagabonds! It would be impossible, I think, to meet their equals. Ah!" added he, with a sigh of regret, "If it were only possible for me to sketch some of them! But no, these fellows have no love for art; it is impossible to trace them for a moment. To the devil with that queer notion which made me stupidly abandon France to come here."
And Emile Gagnepain—for the reader has doubtless already recognised him—gave a second sigh, more profound than the first, and cast upward a despairing look.