“If we only had a Tovas Indian here,” he says, “as I had that sleepy Guaycuru, I’d not be long in changing clothes with him. Well, as we can’t borrow a dress, I must see what can be done to make one. Good luck, there’s no great quantity of cloth in a Tovas suit, and the stitching isn’t much. All that’s needed is a bit of breech-clout, which I can make out of the tail of my shirt; then the poncho over my shoulders, that will cover everything.”
“But the colour of your skin, Gaspar! Wouldn’t that betray you?”
Ludwig thus interrogates, not thinking how easily the dexterous gaucho can alter his complexion, nor recalling what he has said about his having done so to disguise himself as a Guaycuru.
“It might,” returns Gaspar; “and no doubt would, if I left it as it is; which I don’t intend doing. True, my face is not so fair as to need much darkening, beyond what the sun has done for it. I’ve seen some Tovas Indians with cheeks nigh as white as my own, and so have you, señoritos. As for my arms, legs, and body, they’ll require a little browning, but as it so happens I’ve got the stuff to give it them. After the service rendered me by a coat of that colour, you may trust this gaucho never to go on any expedition over the pampas without a cake of brown paint stowed away in some corner of his alparejas. For the poncho, it won’t be out of place. As you know, there are many of the common kind among the Tovas Indians, worn and woven by them; with some of better sort, snatched, no doubt, from the shoulders of some poor gaucho, found straying too far from the settlements.”
“But, Gaspar,” says Ludwig, still doubting the possibility of the scheme; “surely such a disguise as you speak of will never do? In the daylight they’d see through it.”
“Ah! in the daylight, yes, they might. But I don’t intend giving them that chance. If I enter their town at all, and I see no other way for it, that entry must be made in the darkness. I propose making it to-morrow evening, after the sun’s gone down, and when it’s got to be late twilight. Then they’ll all be off guard, engaged in driving their animals into the corrales, and less likely to notice any one strolling about the streets.”
“But supposing you get safe into the place, and can go about without attracting attention, what will you do?” questions Ludwig.
“What can you?” is the form in which Cypriano puts it.
“Well, señoritos, that will depend on circumstances, and a good deal on the sort of luck in store for us. Still you mustn’t suppose I’m trusting all to chance. Gaspar Mendez isn’t the man to thrust his hand into a hornet’s nest, without a likelihood—nay, a certainty, of drawing some honey out of it.”
“Then you have such certainty now?” interrogates Cypriano, a gleam of hope irradiating his countenance. For the figurative words lead him to believe that the gaucho has not yet revealed the whole of his scheme.