Gaspar the Gaucho: A Story of the Gran Chaco

Chapter Twenty One.
A Shoulder out of Joint

When Gaspar, on first sighting the biscachera, poured forth vials of wrath upon it, he little dreamt that another burrow of similar kind, and almost at the very same hour, was doing him a service by causing not only obstruction, but serious damage to the man he regards as his greatest enemy.

This second warren lay at least a hundred miles from the one they have succeeded in crossing, in a direction due east from the latter, and on the straight route for the city of Assuncion.

Let us throw aside circumlocution, and at once give account of the incident.

On this same day, and, as already said, almost the same hour, when the trackers are brought up by the biscachera, a single horseman is seen with head turned towards the Paraguay, and making as if to reach this river; from which he is distant some eighteen or twenty miles. He rides at a rapid rate; and that he has been doing so for a long continuance of time, can be told by the lagging gait of his horse, and the sweat saturating the animal’s coat from neck to croup. For all, he slackens not the pace; instead, seems anxious to increase it, every now and then digging his spurs deep, and by strokes of a spear shaft he carries in his hands, urging his roadster onward. Anyone witness to his acting in this apparently frantic fashion, would suppose him either demented, or fleeing from pursuers who seek nothing less than his life. But as the plain over which he rides is smooth, level, and treeless for long leagues to his rear as also to right and left, and no pursuer nor aught of living thing visible upon it, the latter, at least, cannot be the case. And for the former, a glance at the man’s face tells that neither is insanity the cause of his cruel behaviour to his horse. Rufino Valdez – for he is the hastening horseman – if bad, is by no means mad.

Superfluous to say, what the errand pressing him to such speed. In soliloquy he has himself declared it: hastening to communicate news which he knows will be welcome to the Paraguayan tyrant, and afterwards return to Halberger’s estancia with a party of those hireling soldiers – quaintly termed cuarteleros from their living in barracks, or cuartels.

With this sinister purpose in view, and the expectation of a rich reward, the vaqueano has given his roadster but little rest since parting from the Tovas’ camp; and the animal is now nigh broken down. Little recks its rider. Unlike a true gaucho, he cares not what mischance may befall his steed, so long as it serves his present necessity. If it but carry him to the Paraguay, it may drop down dead on the river’s bank, for aught he will want, or think of it afterwards.

Thus free from solicitude about his dumb companion, he spurs and flogs the poor creature to the best speed it is able to make. Not much this; for every now and then it totters in its steps, and threatens going to grass, in a way different from what it might wish.

“About twenty miles,” the vaqueano mutters to himself, with a glance, cast inquiringly ahead. “It can’t be more than that to the river itself. Question is, whether I can make it anywheres near Assuncion. I’m not sure about this trail; evidently only a cattle run. It may lead me too much above or below. In any case,” he adds, “I must bring out near one of the guardias, so thick along the bank, and the soldiers of the post will ferry me across. From there I’ll have a good road to the town.”

So consoling himself, he keeps on; no longer paying much attention to the doubtful cattle track, but rather taking guidance from the sun. This going down is directly behind his back, and so tells him the due course east, as well as west; for it is eastward he wishes to go. Now, near the horizon, it casts an elongated shadow of himself and his animal, far to the front; and after this he rides, as though following in the footsteps of some giant on horseback!

The sun soon after setting, the shadow changes, veering round to his rear. But it is now made by the moon, which is also low in the sky; only before his face, instead of behind his back. For it would be the season of harvest – were such known in the Chaco – and the moon is at her full, lighting up the campo with a clearness unknown to northern lands.

Were it otherwise, Rufino Valdez might have halted here, and been forced to stay in the Chaco for another night. But tempted by the bright moonlight, and the thought of his journey so near an end, he resolves differently; and once more pricking his tired, steed with spurs long since blood-clotted, he again forces it into a gallop.

But the pace is only for a short while sustained. Before going much further he feels his horse floundering between his legs; while a glance to the ground shows him he is riding through a biscachera!

Absorbed in thought – perhaps perfecting some wicked scheme – he had not noticed the burrow till now. Now he sees it – holes and heaps all around him – at the same time hearing the screeches of the owls, as the frightened birds fly up out of his path.

He is about to draw bridle, when the reins are suddenly jerked from his grasp – by his horse, which has gone headlong to the ground! At the same instant he hears a sound, like the cracking of a dead stick snapped crosswise. It is not that, but the shank of his horse, broken above the pastern joint! It is the last sound he hears then, or for some time after; he himself sustaining damage, though of a different kind – the dislocation of a shoulder-blade – that of the arm already injured – with a shock which deprives him of his senses.

Long lies he upon that moonlit plain, neither hearing the cries of the night birds nor seeing the great ratlike quadrupeds that, in their curiosity, come crowding close to, and go running around him!

And though consciousness at length returns, he remains in that same place till morning’s light – and for the whole of another day and night – leaving the spot, and upon it his broken-legged horse, himself to limp slowly away, leaning upon his guilty spear, as one wounded on a battle-field, but one who has been fighting for a bad cause.

He reaches Assuncion – though not till the third day after – and there gets his broken bones set. But for Gaspar Mendez, there may have been luck in that shoulder-blade being put out of joint.

Chapter Twenty Two.
The Barometer-Tree

After passing the biscachera, the trackers have not proceeded far, when Caspar again reins up with eyes lowered to the ground. The others seeing this, also bring their horses to a stand; then watch the gaucho, who is apparently engaged with a fresh inspection of the trail.

“Have you found anything else?” asks Cypriano.

“No, señorito. Instead, I’ve lost something.”

“What?” inquire both, in a breath.

“I don’t any longer see the tracks of that shod horse. I mean the big one we know nothing about. The pony’s are here, but as for the other, they’re missing.”

All three now join in a search for them, riding slowly along the trail, and in different directions backward and forward. But after some minutes thus passed, their search proves fruitless; no shod hoof-print, save that of the pony, to be seen.

“This accounts for it,” mutters Caspar, giving up the quest, and speaking as to himself.

“Accounts for what?” demands Cypriano, who has overheard him.

“The return tracks we saw on the other side of the camp ground. I mean the freshest of them, that went over the ford of the stream. Whoever rode that horse, whether red or white man, has parted from the Indians at their camping-place, no doubt after staying all night with them. Ha! there’s something at the back of all this; somebody behind Aguara and his Indians – that very somebody I’ve been guessing at. He – to a dead certainty.”

The last sentences are not spoken aloud; for as yet he has not confided his suspicions about Francia and Valdez to his youthful comrades.

“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.

“Come hither, señoritos, and set your eyes on these flowers!”

Thus requested they comply, leading their horses nearer to the tree.

“Well?” exclaims Cypriano, “I see nothing in them; that is, nothing that strikes me as being strange.”

“But I do,” says Ludwig, whose father had given him some instruction in the science of botany. “I observe that the corollas are well nigh closed, which they should not be at this hour of the day, if the tree is in a healthy condition. It’s the üinay; I know it well. We have passed several on the way as we started this morning, but I noticed none with the flowers thus shrivelled up.”

“Stand still a while,” counsels Gaspar, “and watch them.”

They do as desired, and see what greatly surprises them. At least Cypriano is surprised; for the young Paraguayan, unlike his half-German cousin, unobservant of Nature generally, has never given a thought to any of its particular phenomena; and that now presented to his gaze is one of the strangest. For while they stand watching the üinay, its flowers continue to close their corollas, the petals assuming a shrunk, withered appearance.

The gaucho’s countenance seems to take its cue from them, growing graver as he stands contemplating the change.

“Por Dios!” he at length exclaims, “if that tree be speaking truth, and I never knew of the üinay telling lies, we’ll have a storm upon us within twenty minutes’ time; such a one as will sweep us out of our saddles, if we can’t get under shelter. Ay, sure it’s going to be either a temporal or tormenta! And this is not the where to meet it. Here we’d be smothered in a minute, if not blown up into the sky. Stay! I think I know of a place near by, where we may take refuge before it’s down upon us. Quick, muchachos! Mount, and let us away from here. A moment lost, and it may be too late; vamonos!”

Leaping back into their saddles, all three again go off in a gallop; no longer upon the Indian trail, but in a somewhat different direction, the gaucho guiding and leading.

Chapter Twenty Three.
The Captive Train

Just about the same time that the party of trackers had turned to take departure from the barometer-tree, a cavalcade of a very different kind, and composed of a greater number of individuals, is moving over the plain, some forty or fifty miles distant. It is the party being tracked; Aguara and his band of young braves on return to the tolderia of their tribe; the one now become their permanent place of abode.

More than one change has taken place in the Indian cohort since it passed over the same ground going downward. In number it is still the same; but one of them does not sit erect upon his horse; instead, lies bent across the animal’s back, like a sack of corn. There he is fast tied to keep him from tailing off, for he could do nothing to prevent this – being dead! He it was who came forth from the sumac grove wounded by Halberger’s bullet, and the wound has proved fatal; this accounting for the pieces of sipos seen at their camping-place.

Another change in the composition of the party is, that the white man, Valdez, is no longer with it. Just as Gaspar had conjectured, from seeing the return tracks of his horse, he had parted company with the Indians at their first encampment, on the night after the murder. Another and very different individual, has taken his place at the head of the troop. The daughter of the murdered man who now rides by the side of the young Tovas chief!

Though a captive, she is not bound. They have no fear of her attempting to escape; nor does she even think of it. Though ever so well mounted, she knows such an attempt would be idle, and on her diminutive roadster, which she still rides, utterly hopeless. Therefore, since the moment of being made captive, no thought of escaping by flight had even entered her mind.

With her long yellow hair hanging dishevelled over her shoulders, her cheeks white as lilies, and an expression of utter woe in her eyes, she sits her saddle seemingly regardless of where she is going, or whether she fall off and get trampled under the hoofs of the horses coming behind. It alone, her pony might wander at will; but alongside Aguara’s horse it keeps pace with the latter, its meek, submissive look, seeming to tell of its being as much a prisoner as its mistress.

Beyond the bereavement she has suffered by her father’s death – for she saw him struck down, and believes him to be dead – no ill-treatment has been offered her: not even insult. Instead, the young cacique has been making efforts to gain her good will! He pretends innocence of any intent to take her father’s life, laying it all on the shoulders of Valdez. Giving reasons too, not without some significance, and an air of probability. For was not the vaqueano an old enemy of her father, while they were resident in Paraguay? The young Tovas chief has learnt this from Valdez himself, and does not fail to speak of it to his prisoner. Further, he pretends it was on account of this very crime the vaqueano has committed, that he parted company with them – in short, fled, fearing punishment had he accompanied them back to their town.

In this manner the wily Indian does all he can to mislead his captive, as they journey along together.

Captive, he does not call her; in this also feigning pretence. He tells her that the reason for their not taking her direct to the estancia is, because of a party of Guaycurus, their enemies, being out on the war path, and it was to discover the whereabouts of these he and his followers were out scouting, when the sad mischance, as he flippantly terms it, arose. That having learnt where the hostile Indians were, he had needs return at once and report to the warriors of his tribe; thus the excuse for his not seeing her to her home. They could not leave her alone in the wilderness, and therefore of necessity she was going with them to their town; afterwards to be taken back to the estancia– to her mother. With such false tales, cunningly conceived, does he endeavour to beguile the ears of his captive.

For all that they are not believed; scarcely listened to. She, to whom they are told, has reasons for discrediting them. Though but a child in years, Francesca Halberger is not childish in understanding. The strange experiences and perils through which she, and all related to her, had passed, have given her the discernment of a more mature age; and well comprehends she her present situation, with other misfortunes that have led to it. She is not ignorant of the young chief’s partiality for herself; more than once made manifest to her in signs unmistakable – by acts as well as words. Besides, what he is not aware of, she had overheard part of the speech which passed between him and the vaqueano, as the latter was entering the sumac grove, to do that deed which has left her without a father. Instead, therefore, of Aguara’s words deceiving her into a false confidence, they but strengthen the feeling of repulsion she has all along had for him. Whether listening or not, she makes no reply to what he says, nor even deigns to look at him. Sitting listless, dejected, with her eyes habitually bent upon the ground, she rides on as one who has utterly abandoned herself to despair. Too sad, too terribly afflicted with what is past, she appears to have no thoughts about the future, no hopes. Or, if at intervals one arises in her mind, it rests not on him now by her side, but her father. For as yet she knows not that Naraguana is dead.

If somewhat changed the personnel of the Indian troop, much more is it altered in the general aspect and behaviour of those who compose it – a very contrast to what was exhibited on their way downward. No longer mirthful, making the welkin ring with their jests and loud laughter; instead, there is silence upon their lips, sadness in their hearts, and gloom – even fear – on their faces. For they are carrying home one of their number a corpse, and dread telling the tale of it. What will the elders say, when they hear what has occurred? What do?

The feeling among Aguara’s followers may be learnt from a dialogue, carried on between two of them who ride in the rear of the troop. They have been speaking of their paleface captive, and extolling her charms, one of them saying how much their young cacique is to be envied his good luck, in possession of such a charming creature.

“After all, it may bring him into trouble,” suggests the more sage of the speakers, adding, “ay, and ourselves as well – every one of us.”

“How that,” inquires the other.

“Well; you know, if Naraguana had been living, he would never have allowed this.”

“But Naraguana is not living, and who is to gainsay the will of Aguara? He’s now our chief, and can do as he likes with this captive girl, or any other. Can’t he?”

“No; that he can’t. You forget the elders. Besides, you don’t seem to remember the strong friendship that existed between our old cacique and him the vaqueano has killed. I’ve heard say that Naraguana, just before his death, in his last words, left a command we should all stand by the palefaced stranger, her father, and protect him and his against every enemy, as long as they remained in the Chaco. Strange protection we’ve given him! Instead, help to the man who has been his murderer! And now returning home, with his daughter a captive! What will our people think of all this? Some of them, I know, were as much the white man’s friend almost as Naraguana himself. Besides, they won’t like the old cacique’s dying injunction having been thus disregarded. I tell you, there’ll be trouble when we get back.”

“No fear. Our young chief is too popular and powerful. He’ll not find any one to oppose his will; which, as I take it, is to make this little paleface his wife, and our queen. Well, I can’t help envying him; she’s such a sweet thing. But won’t the Tovas maidens go mad with jealousy! I know one – that’s Nacena – ”

The dialogue is interrupted by a shout heard from one who rides near the front of the troop. It is a cry as of alarm, and is so understood by all; at the same time all comprehending that the cause is something seen afar off.

In an instant every individual of the party springs up from his sitting posture, and stands erect upon the back of his horse, gazing out over the plain. The corpse alone lies still; the captive girl also keeping her seat, to all seeming heedless of what has startled them, and caring not what new misfortune may be in store for her. Her cup of sorrow is already full, and she recks not if it run over.