“No matter about this shod horse and his back-track,” he continues, once more heading his own animal to the trail. “We’ve now only to do with those that have gone forward, and forward let us haste.”
While speaking he strikes his ponderous spurs against his horse’s ribs, setting him into a canter, the others starting off at the same pace.
For nearly an hour they continue this rate of speed, the conspicuous trail enabling them to travel rapidly and without interruption. It still carries them up the Pilcomayo, though not always along the river’s immediate bank. At intervals it touches the water’s edge, at others parting from it; the deflections due to “bluffs” which here and there impinge upon the stream, leaving no room for path between it and their bases.
When nearing one of these, of greater elevation than common, Gaspar again draws his horse to a halt; though it cannot be the cliff which has caused him to do so. His eyes are not on it, but turned on a tree, which stands at some distance from the path they are pursuing, out upon the open plain. It is one of large size, and light green foliage, the leaves pinnate, bespeaking it of the order leguminosae. It is in fact one of the numerous species of mimosas, or sensitive plants, common on the plains and mountains of South America, and nowhere in greater number, or variety, than in the region of the Gran Chaco.
Ludwig and Cypriano have, in the meantime, also drawn up; and turning towards the tree at which Caspar is gazing, they see its long slender branches covered with clusters of bright yellow flowers, these evidently the object of his attention. There is something about them that calls for his closer scrutiny; since after a glance or two, he turns his horse’s head towards the tree, and rides on to it.
Arrived under its branches, he raises his hand aloft, plucks off a spray of the flowers, and dismounting, proceeds to examine it with curious minuteness, as if a botanist endeavouring to determine its genus or species! But he has no thought of this; for he knows the tree well, knows it to possess certain strange properties, one of which has been his reason for riding up to it, and acting as he now does.
The other two have also drawn near; and dismounting, hold their horses in hand while they watch him with wondering eyes. One of them cries out—
“What now, Caspar? Why are you gathering those flowers?” It is Cypriano who speaks, impatiently adding, “Remember, our time is precious.”
“True, master,” gravely responds the gaucho; “but however precious it is, we may soon have to employ it otherwise than in taking up a trail. If this tree tells truth, we’ll have enough on our hands to take care of ourselves, without thinking of Indians.”
“What mean you?” both interrogated together.