Gaspar the Gaucho: A Story of the Gran Chaco

by Mayne Reid

When half-way across he again reins up, halting his horse alongside one of the scaffolds, conspicuous among the rest by its larger size, as also a certain freshness about the timbers of which it is constructed; some chips scattered around the supports, where these have been chopped and barked, telling of recent erection. It is not this, however, has prompted Gaspar to make stop beside it; but simply that he there sees a place suitable for the stalling of their horses. There is no need to take the animals on to the other side, but better leave them there, and themselves go forward afoot.

Thus reflecting, all three dismount, and attach their horses to the corner posts of the scaffold, each choosing one for his own. Then, with cautious steps, they continue to the outer edge of the circle, and pushing through some trees that skirt it, look to the plain below. Sure enough, there is the thing they expected to see—an Indian town or tolderia. A large lake lies beyond, on whose tranquil surface the moon makes a mirror, as if it were glass. But their eyes rest only upon the town, their ears bent to catch any sound that may come up from it.

It is not long till sounds do ascend, the barking of dogs, with now and then the lowing of cattle, and neighing of horses; but no human voice, nothing to tell that the place is inhabited by man. For there is no smoke from the houses, no lights anywhere, everybody seeming to be asleep.

Nothing strange in all this; nor do they looking down from the hill think it so. Instead, things are just as they should be and as Caspar anticipated they would. For it is now the midnight hour, and since red men must have rest as well as white ones, the Tovas have all retired to their beds or hammocks.

So concluding, and satisfied with what they see—reflecting further that nothing more can be done till morning—the gaucho and his companions go back to their horses, with the intention of taking off the saddles, and otherwise disposing of them for the night.

It was at first proposed to keep them tied to the scaffold-posts, but on a second inspection of the place, Gaspar sees it is not the best one either for their animals or themselves to pass the night in. Should they go to rest under the scaffold, while asleep, their horses turning restive might pull down the posts, and bring rattling about their ears the bones of some dead cacique! Besides, the ground underneath is not nice to repose upon; being without herbage and trampled all over, some parts seeming freshly turned up. The gaucho would prefer a patch of soft grass to lay his limbs along, and this very thing he has noticed while they were out on the brow of the eminence overlooking the town. Here a grand fig-tree had attracted his attention, under its branches seeming the most proper place for them to encamp. Its far-spreading and umbrageous boughs drooping back to the ground and there taking root—as the Indian banyan of which it is the New World representative—enclosed a large space underneath. It would not only give them a shelter from the dews of the night, but concealment from the eyes of anyone who might chance to be passing that way.

With these manifest advantages in favour of the ground under the fig-tree as a camping-place, and the disadvantages of that beneath the scaffold, the latter is without further ado forsaken, and the former taken possession of.

As no camp-fire can be safely kindled, nor food cooked, they must go to sleep supperless.

Fortunately none of them is a-hungered, all having made a hearty meal while within the macaw’s grove. There they had polished off the grand “drumsticks” of the ostrich, by good luck already roasted. So caring not for supper, after having disposed of their horses by tying them to branches of the fig-tree, they stretch themselves along the ground, and seek repose, which on this night they all need, as much as on any other since starting upon their long-protracted expedition.

Still, they do not intend to be all asleep at the same time. In such a place, with the danger of being found in it, that would never do. One of the three must remain awake and on watch; so it is arranged that they take the duty of sentinel in turns. As the present hour appears to be the one calling for keenest vigilance, Caspar volunteers for the first turn of guard; and the other two wrapping their ponchos around them, and resting their heads upon their recados, with a mutual Buenas noches! become silent, if not asleep.