“But why a lost ball?” asks Ludwig, with curiosity still unsatisfied.
“Oh! that’s plain enough,” answers the gaucho. “As you see, when once launched there’s no knowing where it may roll to; and often gets lost in the long grass or among bushes; unlike the ordinary bolas, which stick to the thing aimed at—that is, if thrown as they should be.”
“What do you make of its being found here?” interrogates Cypriano, more interested about the ball in a sense different from the curiosity felt by his cousin.
“Much,” answers Caspar, looking grave, but without offering explanation; for he seems busied with some calculation, or conjecture.
“Indeed!” simultaneously exclaim the others, with interest rekindled, Cypriano regarding him with earnest glance.
“Yes, indeed, young masters,” proceeds the gaucho. “The thing I now hold in my hand has once, and not very long ago, been in the hands of a Tovas Indian!”
“A Tovas!” exclaims Cypriano, excitedly. “What reason have you for thinking so?”
“The best of all reasons. Because, so far as is known to me, no other Chaco Indians but they use the bola perdida. That ball has been handled, mislaid, and left here behind by a Tovas traitor. You are right, señorito,” he adds, speaking to Cypriano. “Whoever may have murdered my poor master, your uncle, Aguara is he who has carried off your cousin.”
“Let us on!” cries Cypriano, without another word. “O, Ludwig!” he adds, “we mustn’t lose a moment, nor make the least delay. Think of dear Francesca in the power of that savage beast. What may he not do with her?”
Ludwig needs no such urging to lead him on. His heart of brother is boiling with rage, as that of son almost broken by grief; and away ride they along the trail, with more haste and greater earnestness than ever.