At the end of four days the horse he had ridden came into camp riderless; its saddle had been removed, probably by Simeon, to make a pillow at night, and its whole appearance bespoke long travel. For a fortnight the ship’s company and the Indians scoured the country seeking him. They sent up rockets at night, and lighted fires on the hilltops by day; they wearied themselves and the tireless Indians, and at last, knowing the limits of human endurance in a case like Ponsonby’s, they gave up in despair.
All these incidents formed the main topics of conversation in the long evenings in the saloon of the yacht. In addition to Señor Lopez and the captain of the Tintoretto, Stephen had secured the services of a young physician with a taste for adventure, and his own sailing master was a person of intelligence, so that the little party brought a variety of experience to the councils held on board ship or round the camp fire when their search carried them so far inland that it was impossible to return to the yacht at night. Several times, accompanied by Pecheray guides, they had been gone for ten days at a time, but never found a trace of the lost man. There was the faint possibility that he had been found and cared for by wandering Indians, but what was far more likely was that French might stumble upon the spot where he died. Even in that land of beasts and birds of prey something would be left in evidence.
The daylight hours were now so few that little could be accomplished, and the cold was becoming severe. A violent snowstorm on the fifteenth of May decided French to give up the search and go home. Accordingly, they steamed out of the Straits of Magellan and turned the vessel northward, keeping as near the Patagonian shore as was prudent, in the hope of sighting canoes.
They had been steaming in this direction for about three hours, going slowly and keeping a sharp outlook toward the land, when the captain called French’s attention to an opening in the coast line, where the Gallegos River empties into the sea. An impulse—perhaps it might more truly be called an inspiration—induced French to order the yacht brought to anchor in the bay. Although the shore seemed deserted, several canoes filled with Indians immediately put out for the yacht, as was, indeed, their invariable custom. The boats were large, capable of holding six or eight people in the two ends, while in the middle was the inevitable clay hearth, on which smoldered the fire of hemlock. As they approached the yacht, the Indians began begging for rum and tobacco, some by gestures and some in a patois, in which Spanish and Indian words were strangely blended; and French, whose policy was always to secure their good will, invited them on board and ordered the steward to bring spirits and tobacco, and also a plentiful supply of ship biscuit and sweets.
The men were of medium size, and not bad looking, and for the most part dressed in loose-fitting mantles of guanaco skins, stained bright red. In spite of the cold, this one garment was their only protection, and even this they would offer in exchange for rum. Knowing their customs, French was astonished to find the first man who stepped on board wearing the coat of civilization under his mantle, and his astonishment gave way to alarm when he recognized an old checked cutaway of Simeon’s, which had done service for many a winter at Harmouth, and was as unmistakable as the features of its lost owner. While Stephen stared—too agitated to find a word of Spanish—-the Indian tossed off half a tumbler of raw whisky at a gulp and, drawing from the pocket of poor Simeon’s coat a silver flask, he presented it to the steward to be filled with the same genial fluid. The flask was Stephen’s parting gift to Simeon, and marked with his name.
The excitement now became intense, for the Indians declared that the owner of the coat was alive, and the one who was wearing it, and who seemed to exercise some authority over the others, began an explanation in signs. He pointed to a cliff that overhung the stony beach at the mouth of the river, and, lifting his hand high above his head; brought it down with a violent gesture, as if to simulate a fall. He next motioned toward the canoes, talking volubly all the while, though his language was unintelligible to anyone except the captain of the Tintoretto, who picked out a word here and there.
The tribes of the Straits of Magellan and the adjacent coasts vary greatly in their characteristics; some have the impassive bearing we associate with the Indian, and some are imitative, reproducing sounds and gestures with surprising exactness.
It was not difficult to guess that Simeon had fallen over the cliff and been found by the Indians, who are always skirting the shore in their canoes, and the Spanish captain made out that he was now in one of their boats higher up the river. When the Indian was asked whether he would guide them to the place, he hesitated until bribed by rum and provisions, and then he agreed to go in his own canoe and bring Simeon to the yacht, where the exchange was to be effected. Why he hesitated remained a mystery, unless Ponsonby’s knowledge of herbs had made him of value to the tribe.
French immediately ordered the various tins and boxes, containing the supply of food promised, to be placed conspicuously on the deck as an earnest of his honesty in the barter, and when a small keg of rum was added, the satisfaction was complete; four or five Indians followed their leader into his canoe and paddled up the river.
They were gone so long—over three hours—that French began to curse his folly in trusting them, and he was about to follow them up in the launch, when he saw their canoe coming round a bend in the stream. At the first glance it seemed filled with Indians only, and it was not until it was actually alongside that he detected a mummy-like form lying in the stern, which he guessed to be Simeon.