“Your ponchos, my lads! Get them, quick! We must close up the entrance with them, otherwise we’ll stand a good chance of being smothered. Vaya!”
Neither needs urging to haste. Young as they are, they too have had experience of a tormenta. More than once they have witnessed it, remembering how in their house, near Assuncion, it drove the dust through the keyholes of me doors, finding its way into every crack and crevice, making ridges across the floor, just as snow in northern lands—of which, however, they know nothing, save from what they have read, or been told by one who will tell them of such things no more.
In a few seconds’ time, three ponchos—for each possesses one—are snatched from the cantles of their saddles, and as speedily spread across the entrance of the cave—just covering it, with not an inch to spare. With like speed and dexterity, they join them together, in a rough but firm stitching done by the nimble fingers of the gaucho—his thread a strip of thong, and for needle the sharp terminal spine of the pita plant—one of which he finds growing near by. They attach them at top by their knife blades stuck into seams of the stratified rock, and at bottom by stones laid along the border; these heavy enough to keep them in place against the strongest gust of wind.
All this done, they breathe freely, now feeling secure; and after a last look at the screen to assure himself of its being reliable, the gaucho turns to his companions, quietly remarking, “Now, muchachos, I fancy we need have no more fear of Mr Tormenta.”
Chapter Twenty Six.
An Unwelcome Intruder.
As they are now in the midst of amorphous darkness, it might be imagined nothing could be done but keep their place, or go groping idly about. Not so, however. Gaspar has no intention of letting the time pass in such an unprofitable manner; instead, he at once resumes speech, and along with it action.
“Now, young masters,” he says, making a movement towards the place where they had left their horses, “since we are shut up here, I don’t see why we shouldn’t make ourselves as comfortable as we can under the circumstances; and the best way to begin will be with what’s usually the winding up of a day’s work—that’s supper. Our bit of rough riding has given me the appetite of a wolf, and I feel as if I could eat one red-raw. Suppose we have another set-to at the shoulder of mutton? What say you, señoritos?”