Their prospects are now gloomy indeed; but they do not idly dwell on them, or give way to utter despondency. That would be unavailing; besides, there is no time for it. Something must be done to meet the altered circumstances. But what? A question to which none of them makes an immediate answer, since none can.
For awhile all three stand silent, considering. Only a short while, when Gaspar is again stirred to activity, by reflecting that even now they are not safe. One of their horses, frightened by an owl that has flapped its wings close to its face, has snorted, striking the hard ground with his hoof, and making a noise that reverberates throughout the cemetery, echoing among the scaffolds. What if he should set to neighing, in answer to that which now and then comes up from the town below? The thing is too probable, and the result manifest. A single neigh might betray them; for what would horses be doing up there upon the sacred hill? So would any Indian ask who should chance to hear it.
“We must muffle our animals,” says Caspar. “And what’s more, take them back to the other side, where we came up. There we can better conceal them among the bushes. Besides, if it should come to our being under the necessity of a speedy retreat, we’ll be nearer to the back-track, and have a fairer chance of getting off. Señoritos! get your jergas, and wrap them round your horses’ heads.”
He sets the example by so disposing of his own; and, accustomed to quick action in matters of the kind, all three soon have their animals “tapado.” Then, leading them across to where the path ascends on the opposite side, they place them under cover of some thick bushes growing near by, Caspar saying:
“They’ll be safe enough here, I take it; at all events till the morning. Then we may move them elsewhere, and if we’re to have a run for it, remember, hijos mios, ’twill be a race for our lives. There’s no Naraguana now to stand between us and that young wolf, who I fear has got the dear little lamb in his clutches, so fast we’ll have great—”
The effect of his words are such, upon those listening to them, that he suddenly interrupts himself in what he was about to say, and in changed tone continues: “Carramba! we’ll rescue her yet, Naraguana, or no Naraguana. It can be done without him, and I think I know the way.”
In saying so, Caspar is practising a slight deception, his object being to cheer his young companions, over whom his last speech seemed to cast the gloom of despair. For he has as yet thought of no way, nor conceived any definite plan of action. When asked by Cypriano to explain himself, he is silent; and appealed to, he answers by evasion. The truth is, that up to the instant of his finding Naraguana’s body upon the scaffold, he too had been trusting all to what the latter would do for them; and no more than Ludwig could he believe the good old chief to have turned traitor to the palefaced friend so long under his protection, much less connived at his assassination. Now, the gaucho knows he has had no hand either in the murder of his master, or the abduction of that master’s daughter. These events must have occurred subsequent to his death, and, while they were in the act of occurrence, Naraguana was sleeping his last sleep under his plumed manta upon that elevated platform. His son and successor—for Gaspar doubts not that Aguara has succeeded him in the chieftainship—is answerable for the deed of double crime, whoever may have been his aiders and abettors.
Of course, this makes the case all the more difficult to deal with, since the new cacique, by this time established in full plenitude of power, will have it all his own way, and can carry things with a high hand, as he most surely will. To make appeal to him for the restitution of the captive would be manifestly idle, like asking a tiger to surrender the prey it holds between its teeth or in its claws. The gaucho has no thought of so appealing, any more than either of the others. And no more than they has he formed a plan of future action. Only now, after their disposal of the horses, is his brain busy in the conception of some scheme suited to the changed circumstances; and hence, on Cypriano asking him to tell the way he knew of, he but replies evasively, saying:
“Be patient, Señorito! Wait till we’ve got things a little snug, then I’ll take pleasure in telling you. But we mustn’t remain here. On the other side of this queer cemetery, where the road runs down to the tolderia—as I’ve no doubt there is such—that will be the place for us to spend the night in. There we can see and hear what passes on the plain, and should any one stray up we’ll be warned of it, either by our eyes or ears, in good time to get out of their way. So let us cross over. And we must step silently,” he adds, pointing to the cacique’s scaffold tomb, “lest we disturb the sleep of old Naraguana, up yonder.”
With this facetious remark, made partly in the indulgence of his usual humour, but as much to raise the spirits of his young companions, he strides off among the odd structures, making direct for the other side of the cemetery, Ludwig and Cypriano following in single file.