Chapter Thirty One.
Taste after Powder.
Long before daylight penetrates the interior of the cavern, or shows its first streak on the sky outside, the trackers are up and active.
A hasty breakfast is prepared; but, as the mutton bone is now quite bare, they have to fall back on another kind of flesh-meat, which the provident Caspar has brought along. This is charqui, or as it is called by English-speaking people “jerked beef;” in all likelihood a sailor’s pseudonym, due to some slight resemblance, between the English word “jerked,” and the Guarani Indian one charqui, as pronounced by South American people.
Charqui is simply beef cut into long, thin strips, then hung over a rope or rail, and exposed to a hot sun—in the absence of this, to a fire—till the juices are thoroughly dried out of it. Thus prepared, it will keep for weeks, indeed months.
The reason for so preserving it, is the scarcity of salt, which in the districts where charqui prevails, is difficult to be got at, and, in consequence, dear. Most of the beef imported from the La Plata, under the name of “jerked beef,” is not charqui, but simply meat cured with salt. Beef is preserved by a similar process throughout most parts of Spanish America, as in Mexico, and California, and for the same reason; but in these countries it is termed tasajo, and sometimes cecina.
Charqui is by no means a dainty viand; not nice either to the nose or palate. Those portions of it which have not had sufficient sun in the drying process, become tainted, and the odour is anything but agreeable. For all, it serves a purpose in those countries where salt is a scarce commodity; and cooked—as all Spanish Americans cook it—with a plentiful seasoning of onions, garlic, and chili, the “gamey” flavour ceases to be perceptible. Above all, it is a boon to the traveller who has a long journey to make through the uninhabited wilderness, with no inns nor post-houses at which he may replenish his spent stock of provisions. Being dry, firm, and light, it can be conveniently carried in haversack, or saddle-bags.
By Caspar’s foresight, there is a packet of it in Ludwig’s alparejas, where all the other provisions are stowed; and a piece cut from one of the strips, about the length of a Bologna sausage, makes breakfast for all three. Of the Paraguay tea they have a good store, the yerba being a commodity which packs in small space.
Their morning meal is dismissed with slight ceremony; and soon as eaten, they recaparison their horses; then leading them out of the cavern, mount, and are off. As the arroyo has long since shrunk to its ordinary level, and the path along the base of the bluff is dry as when trodden by them in their rush for shelter from the storm, they have no difficulty in getting out. So on they ride up the steep acclivity to the cliff’s crest; which last is on a level with the pampa itself.
But on reaching it, a sight meets their eyes—it is now daylight—causing a surprise to Ludwig and Cypriano; but to Gaspar something more—something akin to dismay. For the sage gaucho mentally sees further than either of his less experienced companions; and that now observed by him gives token of a new trouble in store for them. The plain is no longer a green grassy savanna, as when they galloped across it on the afternoon preceding, but a smooth expanse, dark brown in colour, its surface glittering under the red rays of the rising sun, whose disc is as yet but half visible above the horizon!
“Santos Dios!” exclaims the gaucho, as he sits in his saddle, contemplating the transformation, to him no mystery. “I thought it would be so.”
“How very strange!” remarks Ludwig.
“Not at all strange, señorito; but just as it should be, and as we might have expected.”
“But what has caused it?”
“Oh, cousin,” answered Cypriano, who now comprehends all. “Can’t you see? I do.”
“See what?”
“Why, that the dust has settled down over the plain; and the rain coming after, has converted it into mud.”
“Quite right, Señor Cypriano,” interposes Gaspar; “but that isn’t the worst of it.”
Both turn their eyes upon him, wondering what worse he can allude to. Cypriano interrogates:—
“Is it some new danger, Gaspar?”
“Not exactly a danger, but almost as bad; a likelihood of our being again delayed.”
“But how?”
“We’ll no longer have track or trace to guide us, if this abominable sludge extend to the river; as I daresay it does. There we’ll find the trail blind as an owl at noontide. As you see, the thing’s nearly an inch thick all over the ground. ’Twould smother up the wheel-ruts of a loaded carreta.”
His words, clearly understood by both his young companions, cause them renewed uneasiness. For they can reason, that if the trail be obliterated, their chances of being able to follow the route taken by the abductors will be reduced to simple guessing; and what hope would there be searching that way over the limitless wilderness of the Chaco?
“Well?” says Gaspar, after they had remained for some moments gazing over the cheerless expanse which extends to the very verge of their vision, “it won’t serve any good purpose, our loitering here. We may as well push on to the river, and there learn the worst—if worst it’s to be. Vamonos!”
With this, the Spanish synonym for “Come along!” the gaucho gives his horse a dig in the ribs, with spur rowels of six inches diameter, and starts off at a swinging pace, the others after.
And now side by side go all three, splashing and spattering through the mortar-like mud, which, flung up in flakes by their horses’ hoofs, is scattered afar in every direction.
Half an hour of quick cantering brings them back upon the Pilcomayo’s bank; not where they had parted from it, but higher up, near the mouth of the arroyo. For Gaspar did not deem it necessary to return to that prophetic tree, whose forecast has proved so unfailing. To have gone back thither would have been a roundabout of several miles, since they had made a cross-cut to reach the cavern; and as on the way they had seen nothing of the Indian trail, it must needs have continued up the river.
But now, having reached this, they cannot tell; for here, as on all the plain over which they have passed, is spread the same coating of half-dried dirt, fast becoming drier and firmer as the ascending tropical sun, with strengthened intensity, pours his hot beams upon it. It has smothered up the Indian’s trail as completely as it snow several inches deep lay upon it. No track there, no sign to show, that either horses or men ever passed up the Pilcomayo’s bank.
“Caspita!” exclaims the gaucho, in spiteful tone. “It is as I anticipated; blind as an old mule with a tapojo over its eyes. May the fiends take that tormenta!”
Chapter Thirty Two.
Stopped by a “Riacho.”
For a time the trackers remain at halt, but without forsaking their saddles, pondering upon what course they should pursue, or rather, what direction they ought to take.
Only a short while are they undecided. It seems good as certain that the Indians have kept to the river, for some distance further on, at all events. Therefore, it will be time enough to enter upon a more prolonged deliberation, when they come to a point where this certainty ceases. Thus reflecting, they start off afresh, with their horses’ heads as before.
Going at good speed as ever, in a few minutes they arrive at the confluence of the arroyo with the greater river; the former here running between banks less “bluffy” than above, where it passes the cavern. Still they are of sufficient elevation to make a sharp descent towards the channel of the stream, and a corresponding ascent on its opposite side. But instead of an impediment, the trackers find this an advantage; giving them evidence that the Indians have gone across the arroyo. For their horses’ tracks are distinctly traceable on the steep faces of both banks; the dust either not having settled there, or been washed off by the rain which fell after.
Without difficulty they themselves ride across; for the rapid-running stream has returned to its ordinary dimensions, and is now quite shallow, with a firm gravelly bed. Once on its western side, however, and up to the level of the campo beyond, they are again at fault; in fact, have reached the point spoken of where all certainty is at an end. Far as they can see before them, the surface is smeared with mud, just as behind, and no sign of a trail visible anywhere. Like enough the Indians have still continued on along the river, but that is by no means sure. They may have turned up the arroyo, or struck off across the pampa, on some route known to them, and perhaps leading more direct to whatever may be their destination.
It is all conjecture now; and upon this they must rely. But the weight of probability is in favour of the pursued party having kept to the river, and Gaspar is of this opinion. After riding some distance up the western bank of the arroyo, and seeing no trail or track there, he again returns to where they had crossed, saying:—
“I think we may safely stick to the river. I’m acquainted with its course for at least thirty leagues further up. At about half that distance from here it makes a big elbow, and just there, I remember, an old Indian path strikes off from it, to cross a traveria. Ha! that’s good as sure to be the route these redskins have taken. For now, I think of it, the path was a big, broad road, and must have been much-travelled by Indians of some kind or other. So, muchachos; we can’t do better than keep on to where it parts from the water’s edge. Possibly on the traveria, which chances to be a salitral as well, we may find the ground clear of this detestable stuff, and once more hit off the rastro of these murderous robbers.”
His young companions, altogether guided by his counsels, of course offer no objection; and off they again go up the bank of the broad deep river.
Nor less swiftly do they speed, but fast as ever. For they are not impeded by the necessity of constantly keeping their eyes upon the earth, to see if there be hoof-marks on it. There are none; or if any, they are not distinguishable through the thick stratum of slime spread over all the surface. But although going at a gallop, they do not get over much ground; being every now and then compelled to pull up—meeting obstructions they had not reckoned upon. These in the shape of numerous little streamlets, flowing into the river, most of them still in freshet from the late rain. One after another they ford them, none being so deep as to call for swimming. But they at length come upon one of greater depth and breadth than any yet passed, and with banks of such a character as to bring them to a dead stop, with the necessity of considering whether it can be crossed at all. For it is a watercourse of the special kind called riachos, resembling the bayous of Louisiana, whose sluggish currents run in either direction, according to the season of the year, whether it be flood-time or during the intervals of drought.
At a glance, Gaspar perceives that the one now barring their onward progress is too deep to be waded; and if it be possible to pass over it, this must be by swimming. Little would they regard that, nor any more would their animals; since the pampas horse can swim like an otter, or capivara. But, unfortunately, this particular riacho is of a kind which forbids even their swimming it; as almost at the same glance, the gaucho observes, with a grunt expressing his discontent. On the stream’s further shore, the bank, instead of being on a level with the water surface, or gently shelving away from it, rises abruptly to a height of nigh six feet, with no break, far as can be seen, either upward or downward. Any attempt to swim a horse to the other side, would result in his being penned up, as within the lock-gates of a canal!
It is plainly impossible for them to cross over there; and, without waiting to reflect further, the gaucho so pronounces it; saying to the others, who have remained silently watching him:—
“Well, we’ve got over a good many streams in our morning’s ride, but this one beats us. We can’t set foot on the other side—not here, at all events.”
“Why?” demands Cypriano.
“Because, as you can see, señorito, that water’s too deep for wading.”
“But what of that? We can swim it, can’t we?”
“True, we could; all that and more, so far as the swimming goes. But once in there, how are we to get out again? Look at yonder bank. Straight up as a wall, and so smooth a cat couldn’t climb it, much less our horses; and no more ourselves. If ’twere a matter of wading we might; but, as I can see, all along yonder edge it’s just as deep as in mid-stream; and failing to get out, we’d have to keep on plunging about, possibly in the end to go under. Carramba! we mustn’t attempt to make a crossing here.”
“Where then?” demands Cypriano, in torture at this fresh delay, which may last he knows not how long.
“Well,” rejoins the gaucho, reflectingly, “I think I know of a place where we may manage it. There’s a ford which can’t be very far from this; but whether it’s above or below, for the life of me I can’t tell, everything’s so changed by that detestable tormenta, and the ugly coat of plaster it has laid over the plain! Let me see,” he adds, alternately turning his eyes up stream and down, “I fancy it must be above; and now I recollect there was a tall tree, a quebracha, not far from the ford. Ha!” he exclaims, suddenly catching sight of it, “there’s the bit of timber itself! I can tell it by that broken branch on the left side. You see that, don’t you, hijos mios?”
They do see the top of a solitary tree with one branch broken off, rising above the plain at about two miles’ distance; and they can tell it to be the well-known species called quebracha—an abbreviation of quebrahacha, or “axe-breaker,” so named from the hardness of its wood.
“Whether it be by wading or swimming,” Gaspar remarks in continuance, “we’ll get over the riacho up yonder, not far from that tree. So, let’s on to it, señoritos!”
Without another word, they all wheel their horses about, and move off in the direction of the quebracha.
Chapter Thirty Three.
A Fish Dinner at Second-Hand.
As they make towards the tree, which has erst served others than themselves as a guide to the crossing-place, the nature of the ground hinders their going at great speed. Being soft and somewhat boggy, they are compelled to creep slowly and cautiously over it.
But at length they get upon a sort of ridge slightly elevated above the general level, though still unsafe for fast travelling. Along this, however, they can ride abreast, and without fear of breaking through.
As they proceed onward, Gaspar gives them some further information about the ford they are making for.
“We can easily wade it,” he says, “if this awkward and ill-timed dust-storm hasn’t changed it, as everything else. When poor dear master and I went across—that would be about six months ago—the water wasn’t quite up to our stirrups; but, like as not, last night’s downpour has raised it too, and we’ll have a swim for it. Well, that won’t matter much. There, at all events, we can get the horses out; as the bank slopes off gently. So there’ll be no fear of our being stuck or sent floundering in the stream. A regular Indian road, crosses the riacho there, and has worn a rut running down to the channel on both sides.”
His hearers are pleased at this intelligence; Cypriano signifying so by the laconic rejoinder—
“Esta bueno.”
Then follows an interval of silence; after which Gaspar, as if some new thought had occurred to him, suddenly exclaims—
“Santos Dios! I’d forgotten that.”
“Forgotten what?” both inquire, with a surprised, but not apprehensive look; for the gaucho’s words were not in this tone.
“Something,” he answers, “which we ought to find at this very crossing-place. A bit of good luck it’s being here.”
“And what do you expect from it?” questions Cypriano.
“I expect to learn whether we’re still on the right track, or have strayed away from it. We’ve been going by guesswork long enough; but, if I don’t greatly mistake we’ll there see something to tell us whether our guesses have been good or bad. If the redskins have come up the river at all, it’s pretty sure they also have crossed the riacho at this very ford, and we should there see some traces of them. Sure to find them on the sloping banks, as we did by the arroyo. That will count a score in our favour.”
By the time he has ceased speaking, they have reached the quebracha; and, soon as under its shadow, Gaspar again reins up, telling the others to do the same. It is not that he has any business with the beacon tree, as with that which served them for a barometer; but simply, because they are once more within sight of the stream—out of view since they left its bank below. The ford is also before their eyes, visible over the tops of some low bordering bushes.
But what has now brought the gaucho to a stop is neither the stream, nor its crossing-place; but a flock of large birds wading about in the water, at the point where he knows the ford to be. Long-legged creatures they are, standing as on stilts, and full five feet high, snow-white in colour, all but their huge beaks, which are jet black, with a band of naked skin around their necks, and a sort of pouch like a pelican’s, this being of a bright scarlet. For they are garzones soldados, or “soldier-cranes,” so-called from their red throats bearing a fancied resemblance to the facings on the collar of a soldier’s coat, in the uniform of the Argentine States.
“Bueno!” is the pleased exclamation which proceeds from the gaucho’s lips, as he sits contemplating the cranes. “We sha’n’t have any swimming to do here; the rain don’t seem to have deepened the ford so much as a single inch. You see those long-legged gentry; it barely wets their feet. So much the better, since it ensures us against getting our own wetted, with our baggage to the boot. Stay!” he adds, speaking as if from some sudden resolve, “let’s watch the birds a bit. I’ve a reason.”
Thus cautioned, the others hold their horses at rest, all with their eyes fixed upon the soldier-cranes; which still unconscious of intruders in such close proximity, continue the occupation in which they were engaged when first seen—that of fishing.
Every now and then one darts its long bayonet-like beak into the water, invariably drawing it out with a fish between the mandibles; this, after a short convulsive struggle, and a flutter or two of its tail fins, disappearing down the crane’s capacious throat.
“Having their breakfast,” observes the gaucho, “or, I should rather call it dinner,” he adds, with a glance upward to the sky. “And the height of that sun reminds me of its being high time for us to do something in the same line, if I hadn’t been already reminded of it by a hollow I feel here.” He places his spread palm over the pit of his stomach, and then continues, “So we may as well dine now; though, sad to say, we haven’t a morsel to make a meal upon but that juiceless charqui. Santissima! what am I thinking about? I verily believe my brains have got bemuddled, like everything else. Nothing but charqui, indeed! Ha! we’ll dine more daintily, if I know what’s what. Here, señoritos! back your horses behind those bushes. Quick, gently.”
While speaking, he turns his own out of the path, and rides crouchingly to the rear of the bushes indicated, thus putting a screen between himself and the soldier-cranes.
Following his example, the others do likewise, but without the slightest idea of what he is going to be after next.
Cypriano inquiring, receives the very unsatisfactory answer—
“You’ll see.”
And they do see; first himself dismounting and tying his bridle to a branch; then detaching his lazo from its ring in the saddle-tree, and carefully adjusting its coils over his left arm. This done, he separates from them, as he walks away, speaking back in a whisper:—
“Keep your ground, young masters, till I return to you, and if you can help it, don’t let the horses make any noise, or budge an inch. For yourselves, silencio!”
As they promise all this, he parts from them, and is soon out of sight; their last glance showing him to be making for the ford, going with bent body and crouched gait, as cat or cougar stealing upon its prey.
For some ten minutes or so, they neither see nor hear more of him; and can only conjecture that the design he has so suddenly conceived, has something to do with the garzones. So believing, curiosity prompts them to have another peep at these piscatory birds; which by standing up in their stirrups—for they are still seated in the saddle—they can. Looking over the tops of the bushes, they see that the cranes continue fishing undisturbed, and seemingly unaware of an enemy being near, or that danger threatens them.
But not much longer are they left to enjoy this feeling of security. While the two youths are still regarding them, first one, then another, is observed to elevate its head to the full height of its long slender neck; while here and there throughout the flock are heard cries of warning or alarm; the frightened ones letting fall the fish already in their beaks, while those not quite so much scared, suddenly swallow them. But in another instant, all, as if by one impulse, give out a simultaneous scream; then, rising together, spread their broad, sail-like wings, and go flapping away.
No, not all. One stays in the riacho; no longer to look after fish, but with both wings outspread over the surface of the stream, beating the water into froth—as it does so, all the while drawing nearer and nearer to the nether bank! But its movements are convulsive and involuntary, as can be told by something seen around its neck resembling a rope. And a rope it is; the youths knowing it to be the lazo they late saw coiled over Caspar’s arm, knowing also that he is at the other end of it. He is hauling it in, hand over hand, till the captured bird, passing under the high bank, disappears from their view.
Soon, however, to re-appear; but now carried under the gaucho’s arm.
He cries out as he approaches them:—
“Viva! muchachitos! Give me congratulation, as I intend giving you a good dinner. If we can call charqui flesh, as I suppose we must, then we shall have fish, flesh, and fowl, all the three courses. So we’ll dine sumptuously, after all.”
Saying which, he draws out his knife, and cuts open the crane’s crop, exposing to view several goodly-sized fish, fresh as if just cleared from a draw-net! They are of various sorts; the riverine waters of South America being noted for their wonderful multiplicity of both genera and species. The Amazon and its tributaries, are supposed to contain at least three thousand distinct species; a fact upon which the American naturalist, Agassiz—somewhat of an empiric, by the way—has founded a portion of his spurious fame, on the pretence of being its discoverer. It was pointed out by a real naturalist, Alfred Wallace, ten years before Agassiz ever set eyes on the Amazon; and its record will be found in the appendix to Wallace’s most interesting work relating to this, the grandest of rivers.
In the La Plata, and its confluent streams, are also many genera and species; a question that gives Gaspar not the slightest concern, while contemplating those he has just made the garzon disgorge. Instead, he but thinks of putting them to the broil. So, in ten minutes after they are frizzling over a fire; in twenty more, to be stowed away in other stomachs than that of the soldier-crane.
Chapter Thirty Four.
Attacked by Gymnoti.
Gaspar’s promise to give them a dinner of the three orthodox courses—fish, flesh, and fowl—was only meant in a jocular sense. For the flesh, their stock of charqui is not drawn upon; and as to fowl, the soldier-crane would be a still more unpalatable morsel. So it results in their dining simply upon fish; this not only without sauce, but swallowed at second-hand!
While they are occupied in the eating it, the gaucho, seeming more cheerful than usual, says:—
“I’ve a bit of good news for you, hijos mios.”
“Indeed! what?” is their eager inquiry.
“That we are still upon the right road. The redskins have gone past here, as I supposed they would.”
“You’ve discovered fresh traces of them, then?”
“I have ever so many scratches of their horses’ feet, where they slipped in stepping down to the stream. Quite plain they are; I could distinguish them some way off, and with half an eye, as I was hauling in the soldado. Good news, I call it; since we won’t have to take the back-track anyhow. What’s before us remains to be seen. Possibly, on the other side we may light on something else, to tell the direction they’ve taken. So, we’d better lose no time, but cross over.”
Hurriedly finishing their primitive repast, they spring back upon their recados, and ride down to the ford.
Once in the water, they find it not quite so shallow, as they had supposed from seeing the garzones wading about with but the slightest portion of their shanks below the surface. For at the bottom is a substratum of mud; a soft slimy ooze, firm enough to support the light birds, but through which the heavier quadrupeds, further weighted with themselves and their baggage, sink to their bellies.
Gaspar is surprised at finding the ford in this condition. It was not so when he passed over it before, and he can only account for the change by the dust from the tormenta having been blown in large quantities into the stream, then carried down by the current, and settling over the shallow crossing-place.
Whatever the cause, they find it awkward work to wade through the sticky slime. Still, they might have accomplished the crossing without accident, and doubtless would have done so, but for an impediment of another kind—one not only altogether unexpected, but far more to be dreaded than any danger of their going head and ears over into the ooze. For just as they have reached mid-stream, and are splashing and floundering on, Gaspar, who is riding ahead, and shouting back directions to the others, all at once finds his attention fully occupied in looking to himself, or rather to his horse. For the animal has come to a stop, suddenly and without any restraint of the rein, and stands uttering strange snorts, while quivering throughout every fibre of its frame!
Glancing over his shoulder, the gaucho sees that the other horses have also halted, and are behaving in a precisely similar manner, their riders giving utterance to excited exclamations. Ludwig looks a picture of astonishment; while, strange to say, on Cypriano’s countenance the expression is more one of alarm! And the same on the face of the gaucho himself; for he, as the young Paraguayan comprehends the situation, and well knows what has brought their horses so abruptly to a halt.
“What is it, Gaspar?” questions Ludwig, now also alarmed at seeing the others so.
“Eels!” ejaculates the gaucho.
“Eels! Surely you’re jesting?” queries the incredulous youth.
“No, indeed,” is the hurried rejoinder. “I only wish it were a jest. It’s not, but a dire, dangerous earnest. Santissima!” he cries out, in addition, as a shock like that of a galvanic battery causes him to shake in his saddle, “that’s a lightning eel, for sure! They’re all round us, in scores, hundreds, thousands! Spur your horses! Force them forward, anyway! On out of the water! A moment wasted, and we’re lost!”
While speaking, he digs the spurs into his own animal, with his voice also urging it onward; they doing the same.
But spur and shout as they may, the terrified quadrupeds can scarce be got to stir from the spot where first attacked by the electric eels. For it is by these they are assailed, though Gaspar has given them a slightly different name.
And just as he has said, the slippery creatures seem to be all around them, coiling about the horses’ legs, brushing against their bellies, at intervals using the powerful, though invisible, weapon with which Nature has provided them; while the scared quadrupeds, instead of dashing onward to get clear of the danger, only pitch and plunge about, at intervals standing at rest, as if benumbed, or shaking as though struck by palsy—all three of them, breathing hard and loud, the smoke issuing from their nostrils, with froth which falls in flakes, whitening the water below.
Their riders are not much less alarmed: they too sensibly feeling themselves affected by the magnetic influence. For the subtle current passing through the bodies of their horses, in like manner, and almost simultaneously enters their own. All now aware that they are in real danger, are using their utmost efforts to get out of it by spurring, shouting to their animals, and beating them with whatever they can lay their hands on.
It is a desperate strife, a contest between them and the quadrupeds, as they strive to force the latter forward, and from out of the perilous place. Fortunately, it does not last long, or the end would be fatal. After a short time, two of the three succeeded in reaching the bank: these Gaspar and Cypriano; the gaucho, as he feels himself on firm ground, crying out:—
“Thank the Lord for our deliverance!”
But scarce has the thanksgiving passed his lips, when, turning face towards the stream, he sees what brings the pallor back into his cheeks, and a trembling throughout his frame, as if he were still under the battery of the electric eels. Ludwig, lagging behind, from being less able to manage his mount, is yet several yards from the shore, and what is worse, not drawing any nearer to it. Instead, his horse seems stuck fast in the mud, and is making no effort to advance; but totters on his limbs as though about to lose them! And the youth appears to have lost all control not only of the animal but himself; all energy to act, sitting lollingly in his saddle, as if torpid, or half-asleep!
At a glance Gaspar perceives his danger, knowing it of no common kind. Both horse and rider are as powerless to leave that spot, as if held upon it in the loop of a lazo, with its other end clutched in the hands of a giant.
But a lazo may also release them; and at this thought occurring to him opportunely, the gaucho plucks his own from the horn of his recado, and with a wind or two around his head, casts its running noose over that of the imperilled youth. It drops down over his shoulders, settling around both his arms, and tightening upon them, as Gaspar, with a half wheel of his horse, starts off up the sloping acclivity. In another instant, Ludwig is jerked clean out of his saddle, and falls with a splash upon the water. Not to sink below its surface, however; but be drawn lightly along it, till he is hoisted high, though not dry, upon the bank.
But the gaucho’s work is still unfinished; the horse has yet to be rescued from his dangerous situation; a task, even more difficult than releasing his rider. For all, it is not beyond the skill of Gaspar, nor the strength of his own animal. Hastily unloosing his long, plaited rope from the body of the boy, and readjusting the loop, he again flings it forth; this time aiming to take in, not the head of Ludwig horse, but the pommel and cantle of his high-back saddle. And just as aimed, so the noose is seen to fall, embracing both. For Gaspar knows how to cast a lasso, and his horse how to act when it is cast; the well-trained animal, soon as he sees the uplifted arm go down again, sheering round without any guidance of rein, and galloping off in the opposite direction.
In the present case, his strength proves sufficient for the demand made upon it, though this is great; and the debilitated animal in the water, which can do nought to help itself, is dragged to the dry land nearly as much dead as alive.
But all are saved, horses as well as riders. The unseen, but dangerous, monsters are deprived of the prey they had come so near making capture of; and Gaspar again, even more fervently than before, cries out in gratitude—
“Thank the Lord for our deliverance!”
Chapter Thirty Five.
Under the Carob Trees.
An attack by electric eels, however ludicrous the thing may seem, is not so looked upon by those whose ill luck it has been to experience it. That these slippery creatures possess a most dangerous power, and know how to exert it, there is ample evidence in the accounts given of them by many a truthful traveller.
More than enough of it have had our heroes; for while escaping with their lives, they have not got off altogether scatheless—neither themselves, nor their horses. For, though now beyond reach of their mysterious assailants, the latter stand cowering and quivering, evidently disabled for that day, at least. To continue the journey upon them, while they are in this condition, is plainly impossible. But their riders do not think of it; they, too, feeling enfeebled—Ludwig actually ill. For the electricity still affects them all, and it may be some time before their veins will be freed from its influence.
Nolens volens, for a time they must stay where they are, however they may chafe at this fresh halt—as before, a forced one. But the gaucho, with spirits ever buoyant, puts the best face upon it, saying, “After all, we won’t lose so much time. By this, our horses would have been pretty well done up, anyhow, after such a hard day’s work, floundering through so much mud and crossing so many streams. Even without this little bit of a bother, we’d have had to stop soon somewhere to rest them. And what better place than here? Besides, as you see, the sun’s wearing well down, and it’s only a question of three or four hours at most. We can make that up by an earlier start, and a big day’s journey, to-morrow; when it’s to be hoped we’ll meet with no such obstructions as have beset us to-day.”
Gaspar is not using arguments; for no one wishes to dispute with him. Only speaking words of comfort; more especially addressing them to Cypriano, who is, as ever, the impatient one. But he, as the gaucho himself, sees the impossibility of proceeding further, till they and their animals have had a spell of rest.
For the purpose of obtaining this, they go in search of a suitable camping-place; which they soon find within a grove of algarobias, at some three or four hundred yards’ distance from the ford. The trees cover the sides of a little mound, or hillock; none growing upon its summit, which is a grassy glade. And as the dust has either not settled on it, or been washed off by the rain, the herbage is clean and green, so too the foliage of the trees overshadowing it.
“The very place for a comfortable camp,” says Gaspar, after inspecting it—the others agreeing with him to the echo.
Having returned to the ford for their horses, and led them up to the chosen ground, they are proceeding to strip the animals of their respective caparisons, when, lo! the alparejas, and other things, which were attached to the croup of Ludwig’s saddle, and should still be on it, are not there! All are gone—shaken off, no doubt, while the animal was plunging about in the stream—and with as little uncertainty now lying amidst the mud at its bottom.
As in these very saddle-bags was carried their commissariat—yerba, charqui, maize-bread, onions, and everything, and as over the cantle-peak hung their kettle, skillet, matés and bombillas, the loss is a lamentable one; in short, leaving them without a morsel to eat, or a vessel to cook with, had they comestibles ever so abundant!
At first they talk of going back to the ford, and making search for the lost chattels. But it ends only in talk; they have had enough of that crossing-place, so dangerously beset by those demonios, as Gaspar in his anger dubs the electric eels. For though his courage is as that of a lion, he does not desire to make further acquaintance with the mysterious monsters. Besides, there is no knowing in what particular spot the things were dropped; this also deterring them from any attempt to enter upon a search. The stream at its crossing-place is quite a hundred yards in width, and by this time the articles of metal, as the heavily-weighted saddle-bags, will have settled down below the surface, perhaps trampled into its slimy bed by the horse himself in his convulsive struggles. To seek them now would be like looking for a needle in a stack of straw. So the idea is abandoned; and for this night they must resign themselves to going supperless.
Fortunately, none of the three feels a-hungered; their dinner being as yet undigested. Besides, Gaspar is not without hope that something may turn up to reprovision them, ere the sun goes down. Just possible, the soldier-cranes may come back to the ford, and their fishing, so that another, with full crop, may fall within the loop of his lazo.
Having kindled a fire—not for cooking purposes, but to dry their ponchos, and other apparel saturated in the crossing of the stream—they first spread everything out; hanging them on improvised clothes-horses, constructed of caña brava—a brake of which skirts the adjacent stream. Then, overcome with fatigue, and still suffering from the effects of the animal electricity, they stretch themselves alongside the fire, trusting to time for their recovery.
Nor trust they in vain. For, sooner than expected, the volatile fluid—or whatever it may be—passes out of their veins, and their nervous strength returns; even Ludwig saying he is himself again, though he is not quite so yet.
And their animals also undergo a like rapid recovery, from browsing on the leaves and bean-pods of the algarobias; a provender relished by all pampas horses, as horned cattle, and nourishing to both. More than this, the fruit of this valuable tree when ripe, is fit food for man himself, and so used in several of the Argentine States.
This fact suggesting itself to Gaspar—as he lies watching the horses plucking off the long siliques, and greedily devouring them—he says:—
“We can make a meal on the algarobia beans, if nothing better’s to be had. And for me, it wouldn’t be the first time by scores. In some parts where I’ve travelled, they grind them like maize, and bake a very fair sort of bread out of their meal.”
“Why, Gaspar!” exclaims Ludwig, recalling some facts of which he had heard his father speak, “you talk as if you had travelled in the Holy Land, and in New Testament times! These very trees, or others of a similar genus, are the ones whose fruit was eaten by Saint John the Baptist. You remember that passage, where it is said: ‘his meat was locusts and wild honey.’ Some think the locusts he ate were the insects of that name; and it may be so, since they are also eaten by Arabs, and certain other tribes of Asiatic and African people. But, for my part, I believe the beans of the ‘locust tree’ are meant; which, like this, is a species of acacia that the Arabs call carob; evidently the root from which we take our word algarobia.”
Gaspar listens, both patiently and pleased, to this learned dissertation. For he is rejoiced to perceive, that the thoughts of his young companion are beginning to find some abstraction and forgetfulness, of that upon which they have been so long sadly dwelling. Cypriano, too, appears to take an interest in the subject of discourse; and to encourage it the gaucho rejoins, in gleeful tones:
“Well, Señor Ludwig; I don’t know much about those far-away countries you speak of, for I’ve not had any great deal of schooling. But I do know, that algarobia beans are not such bad eating; that is if properly prepared for it. In the States of Santiago and Tucuman, which are the places I spoke of having travelled through, the people almost live on them; rich and poor, man as well as beast. And we may be glad to make breakfast on them, if not supper; though I still trust something more dainty may drop upon us. I’m not so hopeful as to expect manna, like that which rained down upon Moses; but there’s many an eatable thing to be had in this Chaco wilderness, too—for those who know how to look for it. Ay Dios!” he adds, after a pause, with his eyes turned towards the ford, “those long-legged gentry don’t seem to care about coming back there. No doubt, the screams of that fellow I throttled have frightened them off for good. So I suppose we must give the birds up, for this night anyhow. Just possible, in the morning they’ll be as hungry as ourselves, and pay their fishing-ground a very early visit.”
Saying this, the gaucho relapses into silence, the others also ceasing to converse. They all feel a certain lethargy, which calls for repose; and for a while all three lie without speaking a word, their heads resting on their recados—the only sound heard being the “crump-crump” of their horses’ teeth grinding the algarobia pods into pulp.
Chapter Thirty Six.
A Chat about Electric Eels.
The silence of the camp is not of long continuance; Gaspar being the first to break it. For the gaucho, having a stronger stomach, and consequently a quicker digestion than the others, feels some incipient sensations of hunger.
“I only wish,” he says, “we could get hold of one of the brutes that battered us so in the stream. If we could, it would furnish us with a supper fit for a king.”
“What!” exclaims Ludwig, raising his head in surprise, “one of the electric eels? Is it that you’re speaking of, Gaspar?”
“Ay, señorito; just that.”
“Surely you wouldn’t eat it, would you?”
“Wouldn’t I? If I had one here now, you’d soon see.”
“But are they really good to eat?”
“Good to eat! I should think they are; and if you could but taste them yourself, señorito, you’d say so. A lightning eel’s about the daintiest morsel I ever stuck teeth into; though they do have their dwelling-place in mud, and as some say, feed upon it. Before cooking them, however, something needs being done. You must cut away a portion of their flesh; the spongy part, which it’s said gives them power to make their lightning play. In that lies the dangerous stuff, whatever sort of thing it is.”
“But what are they like, Gaspar? I’ve never seen one.”
It is Ludwig who still interrogates; but to his last question Cypriano, not Gaspar, gives the answer, saying:
“Oh, cousin! Do you mean to say you’ve never seen an electric eel?”
“Indeed do I. I’ve heard father speak of them often, and I know them by their scientific name, gymnotus. I believe there are plenty of them in the rivers of Paraguay; but, as it chances, I never came across one, either dead or alive.”
“I have,” says Cypriano, “come across more than one, and many times. But once I well remember; for an awkward circumstance it was to myself.”
“How so, sobrino?”
“Ah! that’s a tale I never told you, Ludwig; but I’ll tell it now, if you wish.”
“Oh I do wish it.”
“Well, near the little village where, as you know, I was born, and went to school before coming to live with uncle at Assuncion, there was a pond full of these fish. We boys used to amuse ourselves with them; sending in dogs and pigs, whenever we had the chance, to see the scare they would get, and how they scampered out soon as they found what queer company they’d got into. Cruel sport it was, I admit. But one day we did what was even worse than frightening either dogs or pigs; we drove an old cow in, with a long rope round her horns, the two ends of which we fastened to trees on the opposite sides of the pond, so that she had only a little bit of slack to dance about upon. And dance about she did, as the eels electrified her on every side; till at last she dropped down exhausted, and, I suppose, dead; since she went right under the water, and didn’t come up again. I shall never forget her pitiful, ay, reproachful look, as she stood up to the neck, with her head craned out, as if making an appeal to us to save her, while we only laughed the louder. Poor thing! I can now better understand the torture she must have endured.”
“But is that the awkward circumstance you’ve spoken of?”
“Oh, no. It was altogether another affair; and for me, as all the others, a more serious one. I hadn’t come to the end of the adventure—the unpleasant part of it—which was the chastisement we all got, by way of reward for our wickedness.”
“Chastisement! Who gave it to you?”
“Our worthy schoolmaster. It so chanced the old cow was his; the only one he had at the time giving milk. And he gave us such a thrashing! Ah! I may well say, I’ve a lively recollection of it; so lively, I might truly think the punishment then received was enough, without the additional retribution the eels have this day inflicted on me.”
Cypriano’s narration ended, his cousin, after a pause, again appeals to Gaspar to give him a description of the creatures forming the topic of their conversation. To which the gaucho responds, saying:—
“Well, Señor Ludwig, if you want to know what a lightning eel is like, take one of the common kind—which of course you’ve seen—a full-sized one; make that about ten times as thick as it is, without adding much to its length, and you’ll have the thing, near as I can think it. So much for the reptile’s bulk; though there are some both bigger round, and longer from head to tail. As for its colour, over the back it’s a sort of olive green—just like yerba leaves when they’ve been let stand a day or two after plucking. On the throat, and under the belly, it’s paler, with here and there some blotches of red. I may tell you, however, that the lightning-eels change colour same as some of the lizards; partly according to their age, but as much from the sort of water they’re found in—whether it be a clear running stream, or a muddy stagnant pond, such as the one Señor Cypriano has spoken of. Besides, there are several kinds of them, as we gauchos know; though, I believe, the naturalutas are not aware of the fact. The most dangerous sort, and no doubt the same that’s just attacked us, have broad heads, and wide gaping mouths full of sharp teeth, with flat tails and a pair of fins close to the nape of the neck. Carramba! they’re ugly devils to look at, and still uglier to have dealings with; that is, when one’s in the water alongside them—as we ourselves know. Still they don’t always behave so bad, as these did to-day. When I crossed this stream before, with the dueño, neither he nor I felt the slightest shock to tell of eels being in it. I suppose it’s the tormenta that’s set them a stirring. Like enough, there’s some connection between their lightning and that of the sky. If so, that’s what has quickened the brutes, and made them so mad. Well,” he adds, as if drawing his account to a conclusion, “mad as they are, I’d like to have one frizzling over this fire.”
“But who eats them, Gaspar?” interrogates Ludwig, still incredulous on the question of their being a fit article of diet. “I’ve never heard of their being eaten, nor brought to market like other fish.”
“Hundreds, thousands of people eat them, hijo mio. They’re in great request in some places; ay, all over the country. Both whites and Indians relish them; but more especially the redskins. Some tribes prefer them to any other food, be it fish, flesh, or fowl; and make a regular business of catching them.”
“Ah! how are they caught?”
“There are various ways; but the usual one is by spearing them. Sometimes the slippery fellows glide out of their mud beds and come to the surface of the water, as it were to amuse themselves by having a look round. Then the fisherman gets a chance at them, without any searching, or trouble. He is armed with a long pole of caña brava, one end having an iron point barbed like a spear. This, he launches at them, just as I’ve heard say whalers do their harpoons. For, if he kept the shaft in his hands, he’d catch it from their lightning, and get strokes that would stagger him. Still, he doesn’t let go altogether; as there’s a cord attached to the spear, and with that he can haul in the fish, if he has struck it. But he must have a care to keep his cord out of the water; if it gets wetted he’ll have a fit of the trembles upon him, sure. For it’s a fact—and a curious one you’ll say, señoritos—that a dry cord won’t conduct the eel’s lightning, while a wet one will.”
“It is a fact,” says Ludwig, endorsing the statement. “I’ve heard father speak of it.”
“Very singular,” observes Cypriano.
“And I can tell you of another fact,” pursues the gaucho, “that you’ll say is still more singular. Would you believe, that from one of these fish a man may strike sparks, just as by a flint and steel—ay, and kindle a fire with them? I know it’s an old story, about fish having what’s called phosphorus in them; but it isn’t everybody who knows that real fire can be got out of the lightning-eels.”
“But can that be done, Gaspar?” asks Ludwig.
“Certainly it can. I’ve seen it done. And he who did it was your own dear father, Señor Ludwig. It was one day when we were out on a ramble, and caught one of the eels in a pool, where it had got penned up by the water having dried around it. The dueño took out a piece of wire, and with one end tickled the eel; the other end being stuck into some gunpowder, which was wrapped loosely in a piece of paper. The powder flashed and set the paper ablaze, as also some leaves and dry sticks we’d laid around it. Soon we had a fire; and on that same fire we broiled the eel itself, and ate it. Por dios! I only wish we had one broiling over this fire. I’d want no better thing for supper.”
So ended the chat about electric eels, the subject seeming exhausted. Then the conversation changing to other and less interesting topics, was soon after brought to a close. For the darkness was now down, and as their ponchos, and other softer goods had become thoroughly dry, there was no reason why they should not go to rest for the night. But since the soldier-cranes had declined coming back—by this time no doubt roosted in some far-off “cranery”—and no other source of food supply offering, they must needs go to bed supperless, as they did. Their appetites were not yet sufficiently sharp, to have an inordinate craving for meat.