Gaspar the Gaucho: A Story of the Gran Chaco

Chapter Eighteen.
Who rode the Shod Horse?

While waiting for the gaucho to rejoin them by the fire the two youths are not silent, but converse upon the event which saddens and still mystifies them. For up till this moment they have not seen anything, nor can they think of aught to account for the calamity which has befallen them – the double crime that has been committed. No more can they conceive who have been the perpetrators; though Cypriano all along has had his suspicions. And now for the first time he communicates them to his cousin, saying —

“It’s been the work of Tovas Indians.”

“Impossible, Cypriano!” exclaims Ludwig in surprise. “Why should they murder my poor father? What motive could they have had for it?”

“Motive enough; at least one of them had.”

“One! who mean you?”

“Aguara.”

“Aguara! But why he of all the others? And for what?”

“For what? Simply to get possession of your sister.”

Ludwig starts, showing greater astonishment than ever.

“Cypriano!” he exclaims; “what do you mean?”

“Just what I’ve said, cousin. You’re perhaps not aware of what I’ve myself known for long; that the chief’s son has been fixing his eyes on Francesca.”

“The scoundrel!” cries Ludwig, with increasing indignation, for the first time apprised of the fact thus made known to him. Unobservant of such things generally, it had never occurred to him to reflect on what had long been patent to the jealous eyes of Cypriano. Besides, the thing seemed so absurd, even preposterous – a red-skinned savage presuming to look upon his sister in the light of a sweetheart, daring to love her – that the son of the Prussian naturalist, with all the prejudices of race, could not be otherwise than incredulous of it.

“Are you sure of that?” he questions, still doubting. “Sure of what you’ve said, Cypriano?”

“Quite sure,” is the confident rejoinder; “more than once I’ve observed Aguara’s free behaviour towards my cousin; and once would have thrashed the impudent redskin, but for uncle interfering. He was afraid it might get us into trouble with Naraguana.”

“But did father himself know of it? I mean about Aguara and Francesca?”

“No. I rather think not. And I disliked telling him.”

All this is new light to Ludwig, and turns his thoughts into the same channel of suspicion where those of Cypriano have been already running. Still, whatever he may think of Naraguana’s son, he cannot bring himself to believe that Naraguana has been guilty. His father’s friend, and hitherto their protector!

“It cannot be!” he exclaims; “surely it cannot be!”

“It may be for all that, and in my opinion is. Ah! cousin, there’s no telling how an Indian will act. I never knew one who didn’t turn treacherous when it served his purpose. Whether the old chief has been so or not, I’m quite sure his son has. Take my word for it, Ludwig, it’s the Tovas Indians who’ve done this deed, and it will be with them we’ll have to deal.”

“But whither can they have gone? and why went they off so suddenly and secretly, without letting father or any of us know. All that certainly seems strange.”

“Not so strange when we think of what’s happened since. My idea is, it’s been all a planned thing. Aguara got his father to agree to his carrying off Francesca; and the old chief, controlled by the young one, let him take his way. Fearing to face uncle he first went off, taking the whole tribe along; and they’re now, no doubt, residing in some distant part of the Chaco, where they suppose we’ll never go after them. But Francesca will be there too; and we must follow and find her – ay, if we have to lay down our lives when she’s found. Shall we not, cousin?”

“Yes; shall and will!” is Ludwig’s rejoinder in a tone of determination; their dialogue getting interrupted by Gaspar coming back to the camp-fire, and saying —

“Now, señoritos! It’s high time we had some supper.”

On making this announcement the gaucho himself sets about preparing their evening repast. It requires no great effort of culinary skill; since the more substantial portion of it has been already cooked, and is now presented in the shape of a cold shoulder of mutton, with a cake of corn bread, extracted from a pair of alparejas, or saddle-bags. In the Chaco there are sheep – the Indians themselves breeding them – while since settling there the hunter-naturalist had not neglected either pastoral or agricultural pursuits. Hence the meal from which came that cake of maize-bread.

With these two pièces de résistance nothing remains but to make a cup of “Paraguay tea,” for which Gaspar has provided all the materials, viz., an iron kettle for boiling water, cups of cocoa-nut shell termed matés– for this is the name of the vessel, not the beverage – and certain tubes, the bombillas, to serve as spoons; the Paraguayan tea being imbibed, not in the ordinary way, but sucked up through these bombillas. All the above implements, with a little sugar for sweetening; and, lastly, the yerba itself, has the thoughtful gaucho brought along. No milk, however; the lacteal fluid not being deemed a necessary ingredient in the cup which cheers the Paraguayan people, without intoxicating them.

Gaspar – as all gauchos, skilled in the concoction of it – in a short time has the three matés brimful of the brew. Then the bombillas are inserted, and the process of sucking commences; suspended only at intervals while the more substantial mutton and maize-bread are being masticated.

Meanwhile, as a measure of security, the camp-fire has been extinguished, though they still keep their places around its embers. And while eating, converse; Cypriano imparting to Gaspar the suspicions he has already communicated to his cousin.

It is no new idea to the gaucho; instead, the very one his own thoughts have been dwelling upon. For he, too, had long observed the behaviour of the young Tovas chief towards the daughter of his dueño. And what has now occurred seems to coincide with that – all except the supposed treachery of Naraguana. A good judge of character, as most gauchos are, Gaspar cannot think of the aged cacique having turned traitor. Still, as Ludwig, he is at a loss what to think. For why should the Tovas chief have made that abrupt departure from his late abiding place? The reason assigned by Cypriano is not, to his view, satisfactory; though he cannot imagine any other. So, they finish their suppers and retire to rest, without having arrived at any certain conclusion, one way or the other.

With heads rested upon their saddles, and their ponchos wrapped around them, they seek sleep, Ludwig first finding it; next Cypriano, though he lies long awake – kept so by torturing thoughts. But tired nature at length overpowers him, and he too sinks into slumber.

The gaucho alone surrenders not to the drowsy god; but, repelling his attacks, still lies reflecting. Thus run his reflections – as will be seen, touching near the truth:

“Carramba! I can think of but one man in all the world who had an interest in the death of my dear master. One there was who’d have given a good deal to see him dead – that’s El Supremo. No doubt he searched high and low for us, after we gave him the slip. But then, two years gone by since! One would think it enough to have made him almost forget us. Forgive, no! that wouldn’t be Señor José Francia. He never forgives. Nor is it likely he has forgotten, either, what the dueño did. Crossing him in his vile purpose, was just the sort of thing to stick in his crop for the remainder of his life; and I shouldn’t wonder if it’s his hand has been here. Odd, those tracks of a shod horse; four times back and forward! And the last of them, by their look, must have been made as late as yesterday – some time in the early morning, I should say. Beyond the old tolderia, downward, they’ve gone. I wish I’d turned a bit that way as we came up, so as to be sure of it. Well, I’ll find that out, when we get back from this pursuit; which I very much fear will prove a wild goose chase.”

For a time he lies without stirring, or moving a muscle, on his back, with eyes seemingly fixed upon the stars, like an ancient astrologer in the act of consulting them for the solution of some deep mystery hidden from mortal ken. Then, as if having just solved it, he gives a sudden start, exclaiming:

“Sangre de Crista! that’s the explanation of all, the whole affair; murder, abduction, everything.”

His words, though only muttered, awaken Cypriano, still only half-asleep.

“What is it, Gaspar?” questions the youth.

“Oh, nothing, señorito; only a mosquito that took a fancy to stick its bill into the bridge of my nose. But I’ve given Master Zancudo his quietus; and he won’t trouble me again.”

Though the gaucho thinks he has at last got the clue to what has been mystifying them, like all skilled tacticians he intends for a time keeping it to himself. So, saying no more, he leaves his young companion to return to his slumbers: which the latter soon does. Himself now more widely awake than ever, he follows up the train of thought Cypriano had interrupted.

“It’s clear that Francia has at length found out our whereabouts. I wonder he didn’t do so long ago; and have often warned the dueño of the danger we were in. Of course, Naraguana kept him constantly assured; and with war to the knife between the Tovas and Paraguayans, no wonder my poor master was too careless and confident. But something has happened lately to affect their relations. The Indians moving so mysteriously away from their old place shows it. And these shod-tracks tell, almost for sure, that some white man has been on a visit to them, wherever they are now. Just as sure about this white man being an emissary from El Supremo. And who would his emissary be? Who sent on such an errand so likely as him?”

The emphasis on the “him” points to some one not yet mentioned, but whom the gaucho has in his mind. Soon, however, he gives the name, saying:

“The scoundrel who bestrode that horse – and a thorough scoundrel too – is Rufino Valdez. Assassin, besides! It’s he who has murdered my master. I’d lay my life on it.”

After arriving at this conclusion, he adds:

“What a pity I didn’t think of this before! If but yesterday morning! He must have passed along the trail going back, and alone? Ah! the chance I’ve let escape me! Such an opportunity for settling old scores with Señor Rufino! Well, he and I may meet yet; and if we do, one of us will have to stay on the spot where that encounter takes place, or be carried from it feet foremost. I think I know which would go that way, and which the other.”

Thus predicating, the gaucho pulls his poncho around his shoulders, and composes himself for sleep; though it is some time before he succeeds in procuring it.

But Morpheus coming to his aid, proves too many for the passions which agitate him; and he at length sinks into a profound slumber, not broken till the curassows send up their shrill cries – as the crowing of Chanticleer – to tell that another day is dawning upon the Chaco.

Chapter Nineteen.
The “Lost Ball.”

Travellers on such an errand as that which is carrying the gaucho and his youthful companions across the Chaco, do not lie abed late; and they are up and stirring as the first streak of blue-grey light shows itself above the horizon.

Again a tiny fire is kindled; the kettle hung over it; and the matés, with the bombillas, called into requisition.

The breakfast is just as was their supper – cold mutton, corn bread, and yerba tea.

By the time they have despatched it, which they do in all haste, it is clear enough to permit of their taking up the trail they have been following. So, saddling their horses, they return to, and proceed along it.

As hitherto, it continues up the bank of the Pilcomayo, and at intervals they observe the tracks of Francesca’s pony, where they have not been trampled out by the other horses behind. And, as on the preceding day, they see the hoof-marks of the shod animal, both going and returning – the return track evidently the more recently made. They notice them, however, only up to a certain point – about twenty miles beyond the crossing-place of that tributary stream, now so full of sad interest to them. Here, in a grove of algarobias, they come upon the spot where those they are in pursuit of must have made their night bivouac; this told by some fragments of food lying scattered around, and the grass burnt in two places – large circular discs where their camp-fires had been kindled. The fires are out, and the ashes cold now; for that must have been two nights before.

Dismounting, they too make halt by the algarobia grove – partly to breathe their horses, which have been all the morning kept at top speed, through their anxiety to overtake the Indians – but more for the sake of giving examination to the abandoned camp, in the hope that something left there may lead to further elucidation of the crime and its causes; possibly enable them to determine, beyond doubt, who have been its perpetrators.

At first nothing is found to give them the slightest clue; only the ashes and half-burned faggots of the fires, with some bits of sipos– which have been cut from creeping plants entwining the trees overhead – the corresponding pieces, in all likelihood, having been used as rope tackle for some purpose the gaucho cannot guess. These, and the fragments of food already referred to, with some bones of birds clean picked, and the shells of a half-score ostrich eggs, are all the débris they can discover.

But none of these items give any indication as to who made bivouac there; beyond the fact, already understood and unquestioned, that they were Indians, with the further certainty of their having stayed on the spot over-night; this shown by the grass pressed down where their bodies had lain astretch; as also the circular patches browsed bare by their horses, around the picket pins which had held them.

Indians certainly; but of what tribe there is nothing on that spot to tell – neither sign nor token.

So concluding, Cypriano and Ludwig have climbed back into their saddles – the former terribly impatient to proceed – but Gaspar still stays afoot, holding his horse by the bridle at long reach, and leading the animal about from place to place, as if not yet satisfied with the search they have made. For there are spots where the grass is long, and the ground rough, overgrown also with weeds and bushes. Possibly among these he may yet discover something.

And something he does discover – a globe-shaped object lying half-hid among the weeds, about the size and colour of a cricket ball. This to you, young reader; for Gaspar knows nothing of your national game. But he knows everything about balls of another kind – the bolas– that weapon, without which a South American gaucho would feel as a crusader of the olden time lacking half his armour.

And it is a bola that lies before him; though one of a peculiar kind, as he sees after stooping and taking it up. A round stone covered with cow’s skin; this stretched and sewed over it tight as that on a tennis ball.

But to the bola there is no cord attached, nor mark of where one has ever been. For there never has been such, as Gaspar at a glance perceives. Well knows the gaucho that the ball he holds in his hand has not been one of a pair strung together – as with the ordinary bolas– nor of three in like manner united, as is sometimes the case; but a bola, for still it is a bola, of a sort different from either, both in its make and the mode of using it, as also the effect it is designed to produce.

“What is it, Gaspar?” simultaneously interrogate the two, as they see him so closely examining the thing he has picked up. At the same time they turn their horses’ heads towards him.

“Una bola perdida.”

“Ah! a ball the Indians have left behind – lost, you mean.”

“No, señoritos; I don’t mean that, exactly. Of course, the redskins have left it behind, and so lost it. But that isn’t the reason of my calling it a bola perdida.”

“Why, then, Caspar?” asks Ludwig, with the hereditary instincts of the savant, like his father, curious about all such things. “Why do you call it a lost ball?”

“Because that’s the name we gauchos give it, and the name by which it is known among those who make use of it – these Chaco Indians.”

“And pray, what do they use it for? I never heard of the thing. What is its purpose?”

“One for which, I hope, neither it nor any of its sort will ever be employed upon us. The Virgin forbid! For it is no child’s toy, I can assure you, señoritos; but a most murderous weapon. I’ve witnessed its effects more than once – seen it flung full thirty yards, and hit a spot not bigger than the breadth of my hand; the head of a horse, crushing in the animal’s skull as if done by a club of quebracha. Heaven protect me, and you too, muchachos, from ever getting struck by a bola perdida!”

“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.

Chapter Twenty.
Obstructed by a “Biscachera.”

In their fresh “spurt,” the trackers had not proceeded very far when compelled to slacken speed, and finally come to a dead stop. This from something seen before them upon the plain which threatens to bar their further progress – at least in the course they are pursuing.

The thing thus obstructing causes them neither surprise nor alarm, only annoyance; for it is one with which they all are familiar – a biscachera, or warren of biscachas.

It is scarce possible to travel twenty miles across the plains bordering the La Plata or Parana, without coming upon the burrows of this singular rodent; a prominent and ever-recurring feature in the scenery. There the biscacha, or viscacha– as it is indifferently spelt – plays pretty much the same part as the rabbit in our northern lands. It is, however, a much larger animal, and of a quite different species or genus – the lagostoinus trichodactylus. In shape of head, body, and other respects, it more resembles a gigantic rat; and, like the latter, it has a long tapering tail, which strengthens the resemblance. But, unlike either rabbit or rat, its hind feet are furnished with but three toes; hence its specific name, trichodactylus. The same scarcity of toes is a characteristic of the agoutis, capivaras, and so called “Guinea pigs,” all of which are cousins-german of the biscacha.

The latter makes its burrows very much in the same manner as the North-American marmot (Arctomys Ludoviciana), better known by the name of “prairie dog;” only that the subterranean dwellings of the biscacha are larger, from the needs of a bigger-bodied animal. But, strange to say, in these of the pampa there exists the same queer companionship as in those of the prairie – a bird associating with the quadruped – a species of owl, the Athene cunicularia. This shares occupation with the biscacha, as does the other, an allied species, with the prairie dog. Whether the bird be a welcome recipient of the beast’s hospitality, or an intruder upon it, is a question still undetermined; but the latter seems the more probable, since, in the stomachs of owls of the northern species, are frequently found prairie dog “pups;” a fact which seems to show anything but amicable relations between these creatures so oddly consorting.

There is yet another member of these communities, apparently quite as much out of place – a reptile; for snakes also make their home in the holes both of biscacha and prairie dog. And in both cases the reptile intruder is a rattlesnake, though the species is different. In these, no doubt, the owls find their staple of food.

Perhaps the most singular habit of the biscacha is its collecting every loose article which chances to be lying near, and dragging all up to its burrow; by the mouth of which it forms a heap, often as large as the half of a cart-load dumped carelessly down. No matter what the thing be – stick, stone, root of thistle, lump of indurated clay, bone, ball of dry dung – all seem equally suitable for these miscellaneous accumulations. Nothing can be dropped in the neighbourhood of a biscacha hole but is soon borne off, and added to its collection of bric-à-brac. Even a watch which had slipped from the fob of a traveller – as recorded by the naturalist. Darwin – was found forming part of one; the owner, acquainted with the habits of the animal, on missing the watch, having returned upon his route, and searched every biscacha mound along it, confident that in some one of them he would find the missing article – as he did.

The districts frequented by these three-toed creatures, and which seem most suitable to their habits, are those tracts of campo where the soil is a heavy loam or clay, and the vegetation luxuriant. Its congener, the agouti, affects the arid sterile plains of Patagonia, while the biscacha is most met with on the fertile pampas further north; more especially along the borders of those far-famed thickets of tall thistles – forests they might almost be called – upon the roots of which it is said to feed. They also make their burrows near the cardonales, tracts overgrown by the cardoon; also a species of large malvaceous plant, though quite different from the pampas thistles.

Another singular fact bearing upon the habits of the biscacha may here deserve mention. These animals are not found in the Banda Oriental, as the country lying east of the Uruguay river is called; and yet in this district exist conditions of soil, climate, and vegetation precisely similar to those on its western side. The Uruguay river seems to have formed a bar to their migration eastward; a circumstance all the more remarkable, since they have passed over the Parana, a much broader stream, and are common throughout the province of Entre Rios, as it name imports, lying between the two.

Nothing of all this occupies the thoughts of the three trackers, as they approach the particular biscachera which has presented itself to their view, athwart their path. Of such things they neither think, speak, nor care. Instead, they are but dissatisfied to see it there; knowing it will give them some trouble to get to the other side of it, besides greatly retarding their progress. If they ride right across it at all, they must needs go at a snail’s pace, and with the utmost circumspection. A single false step made by any of their horses might be the dislocation of a joint, or the breaking of a leg. On the pampa such incidents are far from rare; for the burrows of the biscachas are carried like galleries underground, and therefore dangerous to any heavy quadruped so unfortunate as to sink through the surface turf. In short, to ride across a biscachera would be on a par with passing on horseback through a rabbit warren.

“Caspita!” is the vexed exclamation of the gaucho, as he reins up in front of the obstruction, with other angry words appended, on seeing that it extends right and left far as the verge of vision, while forward it appears to have a breadth of at least half a league.

“We can’t gallop across that,” he adds, “nor yet go at even a decent walk. We must crawl for it, muchachos, or ride all the way round. And there’s no knowing how far round the thing might force us; leagues likely. It looks the biggest biscachera I ever set eyes on. Carra-i-i!”

The final ejaculation is drawled out with a prolonged and bitter emphasis, as he again glances right and left, but sees no end either way.

“Ill luck it is,” he continues, after completing his reconnaissance. “Satan’s own luck our coming upon this. A whole country covered with traps! Well, it won’t help us any making a mouth about it; and I think our best way will be to strike straight across.”

“I think so too,” says Cypriano, impatient to proceed.

“Let us on into it, then. But, hijos mios; have a care how you go. Look well to the ground before you, and keep your horses as far from the holes as you can. Where there’s two near together steer midways between, giving both the widest berth possible. Every one of them’s a dangerous pitfall. Caspita! what am I prattling about? Let me give you the lead, and you ride after, track for track.”

So saying, he heads his horse in among the rubbish heaps, each with its hole yawning adjacent: the others, as admonished, close following, and keeping in his tracks.

They move onward at a creeping pace, every now and then forced to advance circuitously, but taking no heed of the creatures upon whose domain they have so unceremoniously intruded. In truth, they have no thought about these, nor eyes for them. Enough if they can avoid intrusion into their dwellings by a short cut downwards.

Nor do the biscachas seem at all alarmed at the sight of such formidable invaders. They are anything but shy creatures; instead, far more given to curiosity; so much that they will sit squatted on their hams, in an upright attitude, watching the traveller as he passes within less than a score yards of them, the expression on their faces being that of grave contemplation. Only, if he draw too familiarly near, and they imagine him an enemy, there is a scamper off, their short fore-legs giving them a gait also heightening their resemblance to rats.

As a matter of course, such confidence makes them an easy prey to the biscacha catcher; for there are men who follow taking them as a profession. Their flesh is sweet and good to eat, while their skins are a marketable commodity; of late years forming an article of export to England, and other European countries.

Heeding neither the quadrupeds, nor the birds, their fellow-tenants of the burrow – the latter perched upon the summits of the mounds, and one after another flying off with a defiant screech as the horsemen drew near – these, after an hour spent in a slow but diligent advance, at length, and without accident, ride clear of the biscachera, and out upon the smooth open plain beyond it.

Soon as feeling themselves on firm ground, every spur of the party is plied; and they go off at a tearing pace, to make up for the lost time.