Chapter Forty Three.
In the Sacred Town.
That same sun which became so suddenly obscured over the salitral, to shine again in the later hours of the afternoon, is once more about to withdraw its light from the Chaco—this time for setting. Already appears its disc almost down upon the horizon; and the strangely-shaped hill, which towers above the Tovas town, casts a dark shadow over the plain eastward, to the distance of many miles. The palms skirting the lake reflect their graceful forms far over the water, whose surface, undisturbed by the slightest breath of air, shows smooth and shining as a mirror; broken, however, here and there, where water-fowl disport themselves upon it. Among these may be observed the great musk duck, misnamed “Muscovy,” and the black-necked swan; both indigenous to the Chaco; while in the shallower places along shore, and by the edges of the islets, appear various species of long-legged waders, standing still, or stalking about as if on stilts; the most conspicuous of all being the scarlet flamingo, side by side with the yet taller garzon, already known to us as “soldier-crane.”
A scene of tranquil yet picturesque beauty—perhaps no fairer on earth—is the landscape lying around the Sacred Town of the Tovas.
And on this same day and hour, a stranger entering within the precincts of the place itself might not observe anything to contrast with the tranquillity of the scene outside. Among the toldos he would see children at play, and, here and there, seated by their doors young girls engaged in various occupations; some at basket work, others weaving mats from the fibres of split palm leaves, still others knitting redes, or hammocks. Women of more mature age are busied with culinary cares, preparing the evening repast over fires kindled in the open air; while several are straining out the honey of the wild bee, called tosimi, which a party of bee-hunters, just returned to the tolderia, has brought home.
A few of the men may also be observed moving about, or standing in groups on the open ground adjoining the malocca; but at this hour most of them are on horseback out upon the adjacent plain, there galloping to and fro, gathering their flocks and herds, and driving them towards the corrals; these flocks and herds composed of horned cattle, sheep, and goats—the Tovas Indians being somewhat of a pastoral people. No savages they, in the usual sense of the term, nor yet is hunting their chief occupation. This they follow now and then, diversifying the chase by a warlike raid into the territory of some hostile tribe, or as often some settlement of the palefaces. For all civilisation of a certain kind has made progress among them; having its origin in an early immigration from Peru, when the “Children of the Sun” were conquered by Pizarro and his conquistadores. At that time many Peruvians, fleeing from the barbarous cruelty of their Spanish invaders, sought asylum in the Chaco, there finding it; and from these the Tovas and other tribes have long ago learnt many of the arts of civilised life; can spin their own thread, and sew skilfully as any sempstress of the palefaces; weave their own cloth, dress and dye it in fast colours of becoming patterns; in short, can do many kinds of mechanical work, which no white artisan need feel ashamed to acknowledge as his own. Above all, are they famed for the “feather-work,” or plume embroidery—an art peculiarly Indian—which, on their first becoming acquainted with it, astonished the rough soldiers of Cortez and Pizarro, as much as it delighted them.
To this day is it practised among several of the South American tribes, notably those of the Gran Chaco, while the Tovas particularly excel in it. But perhaps the highest evidence of these Indians having some civilisation, is their form of government, which is in reality Republican. For their cacique, or chief, although sometimes allowed to rule by hereditary succession, is more often chosen by the sub-chiefs and warriors; in short, elected just as the President of a Republic.
This gives the key to Aguara’s doubts and fears on returning to the Sacred Town with Francesca Halberger as his captive. Nor are the latter yet allayed, despite three days having elapsed since his return. Though he has done all in his power to conceal from his people the true facts in relation to her father’s death, still certain details of the tragedy have leaked out; and it has become known to most, that the hunter-naturalist is not only dead, but died by the hand of an assassin. This last, however, they suppose to have been the other white man late on a visit to them—Valdez the vaqueano. For the same tale which Aguara had told to his captive on the way, he has repeated, with some variations, to the elders of the tribe assembled in council within the malocca. So far not much of a fiction; only that part accounting for the death of the young brave who fell to Halberger’s bullet—a stray shot, while the latter was defending himself against Valdez.
And the daughter of the murdered man has been brought back with them, not as a prisoner, but because it was inconvenient to take her direct to her own home. She can and will be sent thither at the first opportunity which offers. So promises the deceitful son of Naraguana to those of the tribe who would call him to account.
Meanwhile, the girl has been entrusted to the charge and safe keeping of Shebotha, a sort of “mystery woman,” or sorceress, of much power in the community; though, as all know, under the influence of Aguara himself. But he has not dared to take the youthful captive to his own toldo, or even hint at so doing; instead, he still keeps his wicked purpose to himself, trusting to time and Shebotha for its accomplishment. According to his own way of thinking, he can well afford to wait. He has no thought that anyone will ever come after the captive girl; much less one with power to release her. It is not probable, and from a knowledge possessed only by himself, scarcely possible. Her father is dead, her mother doomed to worse than death, as also her brother and that other relative—his own rival. For before parting with him, Rufino Valdez had said what amounted to so much; and possibly by this time the Señora Halberger, with what remained of her family, would be on the way back to Paraguay; not returning voluntarily, but taken back by the vaqueano. With this belief—a false one, as we know—the young Tovas chief feels secure of his victim, and therefore refrains from any act of open violence, as likely to call down upon him the censure of his people. Though popular with the younger members of the tribe, he is not so much in favour with the elders as to fly in the face of public opinion; for were these aware of what has really taken place, it would go ill with him. But as yet they are not; silence having been enjoined on the youths who accompanied him in that ill-starred expedition, which they, for their own sakes, have hitherto been careful to keep.
For all, certain facts have come to light in disjointed, fragmentary form, with deductions drawn from them, which go hard against the character of the young cacique; and as the hours pass others are added, until discontent begins to show itself among the older and more prominent men of the tribe, chiefly those who were the friends of his father. For these were also friends of her father, now alike fatherless, though made so by a more cruel fate. Low murmurings are here and there heard, which speak of an intent to prosecute inquiry on the subject of Halberger’s assassination—even to the carrying it into Paraguay. Now that they have re-entered into amity with Paraguay’s Dictator, they may go thither, though the purpose be a strange one; to arraign the commissioner who acted in restoring the treaty!
With much whispering and murmurs around, it is not strange that the young cacique, while dreaming of future pleasures, should also have fears for that future. His own passion, wild as wicked, has brought him into danger, and a storm seems brewing that, sooner or later, may deprive him of his chieftainship.
Chapter Forty Four.
An Indian Belle.
If the Tovas chief be in danger of receiving punishment from his people for carrying into captivity the daughter of his father’s friend, there is also danger to the captive herself from another and very different source. Just as the passion of love has been the cause of her being brought to the Sacred Town of the Tovas, that of jealousy is like to be the means of her there finding an early grave.
The jealous one is an Indian girl, named Nacena, the daughter of a sub-chief, who, like Naraguana himself, was an aged man held in high regard; and, as the deceased cacique, now also sleeping his last sleep in one of their scaffold tombs.
Despite her bronzed skin, Nacena is a beautiful creature; for the brown is not so deep as to hinder the crimson blush showing its tint upon her cheeks; and many a South American maiden, boasting the blue blood of Andalusia, has a complexion less fair than she. As on this same evening she sits by the shore of the lake, on the trunk of a fallen palm-tree, her fine form clad in the picturesque Indian garb, with her lovely face mirrored in the tranquil water, a picture is presented on which no eye could look, nor thought dwell, without a feeling of delight; and, regarding her thus, no one would believe her to be other than what she is—the belle of the Tovas tribe.
Her beauty had not failed to make impression upon the heart of Aguara, long before his having become cacique. He has loved her too, in days gone by, ere he looked upon the golden-haired paleface. Both children then, and little more yet; for the Indian girl is only a year or two older than the other. But in this southern clime, the precocity already spoken of is not confined to those whose skins are called white, but equally shared by the red.
Nacena has been beloved by the son of Naraguana, and knew, or at least believed it. But she better knows, that she has been deceived by him, and is now slighted, about to be cast aside for another. That other will, ere long, be chieftainess of the Tovas tribe, while she—
She has reflected thus far, when the bitter thought overpowering causes her to start to her feet, a cry escaping her lips as if it came from a heart cleft in twain.
Nothing of this, however, shows in her face. The expression upon it is rather that of anger, as a jaguarete of her native plains, whose rage has been aroused by the arrow of the Indian hunter suddenly piercing its side. Hitherto silent, she is now heard to speak; but, though alone, the words to which she gives utterance are not in soliloquy: instead, as if spoken to some one who is near, though unseen. It is an apostrophe meant for no mortal ears, but addressed to the Divinity of the lake!
“Spirit of the Waters!” she cries, with arms outstretched and head aloft, “hear my prayer! Tell me if it be true! Will he make her his wife?”
She is silent for a second or two, as though expecting a reply, and listening for it. It comes, but not from the deity addressed. Out of her own heart she has the answer.
“He will; yes, surely will! Else, why has he brought her hither? A false tale he has told in the council of the elders; false as himself! Where are his words, his vows, made to me with lips that gave kisses? Perjured—broken—gone as his love, given to another! And I am soon to see her his queen, salute her as mine, and attend upon her as one of her waiting maids! Never! No, Spirit of the Waters! Rather than do that, I shall go to you; be one of your attendants, not hers. Rather than that, thou shalt take me to thy bosom!”
High-sounding speeches from an Indian girl, scarce fifteen years of age? But love’s eloquence is not confined to age, race, or rank, no more than that of jealousy. Both passions may burn in the breast of the savage maiden, as in the heart of the high-born lady—perhaps tearing it more. Not strange they should find like expression on the lips.
“Why not now?” continues Nacena in a tone that tells of despair, while the cloud upon her brow is seen to grow darker. “Ah! why not? No need waiting longer; I know all. A leap from yonder rock, and all would be over, my suspense, as my sufferings.”
For a moment she stands with eyes fixed upon a rocky promontory, which juts out into the lake near by. Its head overhangs the water, three fathoms deep, as she knows. Many the time has she sprung from that projecting point to swim, naiad-like, underneath it. But the plunge she now meditates is not for swimming, but to sink!
“No!” she exclaims, after a pause, as she withdraws her gaze from the rock, the expression upon her face changing back to that of the jaguarete! “No, Spirit of the Waters! not yet. Nacena fears not to die, but that is not the death for the daughter of a Tovas chief. If wronged, she must resent it, and will. Revenge first, and the deceiver shall first die. After that, O Spirit, thou canst take me; Nacena will no longer care to live.”
As she says this, the sad look returns to her countenance, replacing that of anger; and for a time she stands with head drooped down to her bosom, and arms hanging listlessly by her side—a very picture of despair.
At length, she is about to leave the spot, when a footstep warns her of one making approach; and, turning, she sees who it is. A youth, but to manhood grown, and wearing the insignia of a sub-chief. Though many years older than herself, he is her brother.
“Sister!” he says, coming up to her, and closely scanning her face, “you have thoughts that trouble you. I would know what they are.”
“Oh, nothing,” she rejoins, with an effort to appear calm. “I’ve only been looking over the lake, at the birds out yonder. How they enjoy themselves this fine evening!”
“But you’re not enjoying yourself, Nacena; nor haven’t been for some time past. I’ve noticed that; and more, I know the reason.”
She starts at his words; not to turn pale, but with the blood mantling into her brown cheeks. Still she is silent.
“You need neither deny, nor declare it,” he continues. “’Tis all known to me, save one thing. That alone I wish to ask you about. I must have an answer, and a truthful one. As your brother I demand it, Nacena.”
She fixes her eyes upon him, in a look half-frightened, then timidly asks:
“What thing, Kaolin?”
“Has he deceived you?”
“Deceived!” she echoes, the blush upon her cheeks mounting up to her brow, and becoming deeper red. “Brother! Had any one but you asked that question, I would— Deceived! No; your sister would die before that could have been. As you seem to know all, I will no longer conceal the truth from you. You speak of Aguara. I loved him; ah! love him still. And he told me my love was returned; spoke it solemnly; vowed it. Now I know his words were false, and he was but beguiling me.”
“Then he has trifled with you,” exclaims the brother, his indignation now beyond bounds. “You, my sister, the daughter of a Tovas chief, of birth and blood equal to his own! But he shall repent it, and soon. The time has not come; it will ere long. Enough now, Nacena. Not a word to anyone of what has passed between us. Be patient and wait. For your wrongs, I promise, you snail have revenge.”
And with this threat, he turns away; leaving her on the lake’s edge, as he found her.
Soon as he is out of sight, and his footfall beyond hearing, she reseats herself on the trunk of the palm; and, supporting her head upon her hands, gives way to weeping—a very cataract of tears.
It seems to relieve her from the tumult of emotions late harassing her heart, and after a time she looks up with an expression in her eyes different from all that have preceded. It is of hope; as can be told by the words which fall in low murmuring from her lips:
“After all I may be mistaken. Can I? If so, and he is still true, then I am wronging him, and Kaolin may commit a crime that will bring both punishment and repentance. Oh, that I knew the truth! But surely, Shebotha knows, and can tell it me. She will, for the reward I shall offer her. This night she has promised to meet me on the hill, and then, then—”
She breaks off abruptly, and with countenance again clouding over. For the words “I shall learn the worst” are on her lips, and the thought in her mind.
It is hope’s last spark, love-lighted from embers nearly extinguished, still flickering, faint, and vainly struggling to burn on.
Chapter Forty Five.
An Elevated Graveyard.
Just as the last glimmer of twilight is taking departure from the plain, the three who had sought concealment under the roosting-place of macaws, slip quietly out of the copse, and ride away from it, leaving the noisy birds, now silent, behind them.
There is yet light enough to enable them to take bearings by the hill, which, as they have rightly conjectured, rises over the Tovas town; and, heading direct towards it, after a couple of hours spent in riding at a brisk pace, they arrive at the rocky steep forming a periphery to its base. As there is now a clear moonlight, caution dictates their again getting under cover; which they do by drawing their horses close in to the adjacent cliff, whose shadow sufficiently conceals them. But it is not intended to stay long there. At their last halting-place they had considered everything, and decided upon the steps to be taken; so far as they can, from what is known to them. If the circumstances change, or turn out different from what they are expecting, they must be guided in their action accordingly.
Still in the belief of Naraguana being alive, Ludwig is again of the opinion that they should push on to the town without further delay. The place cannot now be far-off; for at the hill’s base they have struck a broad and much-travelled trail denoting the proximity of a settlement. Cypriano is undecided, but Gaspar, as before, goes strongly against proceeding directly onward.
“You speak of delay, Señor Ludwig,” he says; “but in this case, the old adage, ‘More haste less speed,’ might be true, as it often is. Besides, what would we gain by entering their town now? It isn’t likely we should accomplish anything to-night. You forget the hour it is—nigh unto midnight. And as the custom of most Chaco Indians is early to bed and early to rise, we’d no doubt find every redskin of them asleep, with only their dogs to receive us. Carrai! A nice reception that would be! Like as not some scores of half-famished curs to fall upon us—perhaps drag us out of our saddles. Whereas, in the morning all would be different, with the people up to protect us from such an assault. But whether we enter at night, or by day, I still stick to the belief, that it will be better to do so by stealth; at least, one of us should first slip in that way, and learn how the land lies. In any case, we ought to have a squint at this Sacred Town, before trusting ourselves within its walls—if walls it have. From the look of things here, I fancy it lies on the other side of this hill. By climbing the hill now, and staying on its top till daybreak, we’ll get a god view of the town, which will, no doubt, be right under us. We can see all through the streets, and what’s going on in them. That will give us a hint of how to act afterwards, and if things look favourable, we might then ride boldly in; which, after all, may be the best way of introducing ourselves—only it should be done in the daylight.”
Cypriano sees that the gaucho’s reasoning is correct; and Ludwig also acknowledging it to be so, it is finally decided that they ascend the hill, and remain upon its summit for the rest of that night.
But now comes a question not hitherto asked, or thought of. How is the ascent to be made, and where is there a path practicable for making it? Not only is it steep, but its sides are thickly overgrown with trees, and between their trunks a dense tangle of underwood.
“It must be on its summit, they have their burying-ground,” observes Gaspar, gazing upward. “Yes; Naraguana spoke of its being on the top of a hill, and there’s no other hill near. If that be the case, and they carry their dead up, there’ll sure be some sort of a road for their funeral processions. That would likely be on the other side, straight up from the town. But I warrant there’s a trail starts from this side too, and runs right over the hill. Let’s ride along a bit, and see if there be.”
The gaucho’s conjecture is correct, as they soon discover. Before they have ridden three score lengths of their horses, keeping close along the base of the hill, they perceive an opening in the timber which skirts it, marked by certain insignia denoting the entrance to a much-frequented path. For though narrow, it shows well trampled and trodden. Diverging abruptly from the broad road running on round the hill, it strikes in under a tall cotton tree, a ceiba, this conspicuous from being bent over, as if half-blown down. The path enters between its trunk and a gigantic pita plant (agave), whose stiff spinous leaves almost bar up the entrance as with an iron gate.
“That’s the way we’ve got to go,” says Gaspar, pointing to it, at the same time setting his horse’s head in the direction of the ceiba; then adding, as he nods towards the pita plant; “have a care of your heads, hijos mios! Look out for this queer customer on the left, or you may get your soft cheeks scratched a bit.”
On delivering the admonition he ducks his own head, and passing under the thorny leaves of the agave, commences the ascent of the hill.
Cypriano and Ludwig do likewise; and all three are soon climbing the steep, one behind the other, now in silence, the only sounds heard being the hoof-strokes of the horses, with their hard breathing as they strain up the acclivity.
A quarter of an hour’s tough climbing carries them up the wooded slope, and out upon the open summit, where they have a spectacle before their eyes peculiar, as it is original. As already said, the hill is table-topped, and being also dome-shaped the level surface is circular, having a diameter of some three or four hundred yards. Nothing strange in this, however, since hills of the kind, termed mesas, are common throughout most parts of Spanish America, and not rare in the Gran Chaco. All three are familiar with such eminences. But what they are not familiar with—and indeed none of them have ever seen before—are some scores of queer-looking structures standing all over the summit, with alley-like spaces between! Scaffolds they appear, each having two stages, one above the other, such as might be used in the erection of a two-storey house!
And scaffolds they are, though not employed in any building purposes; instead, for that of burial. They are the tombs on which are deposited the bodies of the Tovas dead; or those of them that during life were dignitaries in the tribe.
On this elevated cemetery the moon is shining brightly, though obliquely, throwing the shadows of the scaffolds aslant, so that each has its counterpart on the smooth turf by its side, dark as itself, but magnified in the moonlight. Gaspar and his companions can see that these singular mausoleums are altogether constructed of timber, the supporting posts being trunks of the Cocoyol palm, the lower staging of strong canes, the caña brava, laid side by side, while the upper one, or roof, is a thatch of the leaves of another species of palm—the cuberta.
After contemplating them for an instant, Gaspar says: “This is the burying-ground Naraguana spoke to me about, beyond a doubt. And not such a bad sort of place either to take one’s final rest in, after life’s worries are over. I shouldn’t much object to being laid out in that style myself. Only I’d need friends to live after me, and keep the structure in repair; otherwise the frail thing might some day come tumbling down, and my poor bones along with it.”
At the conclusion of this quaint speech, he gives the rein to his horse, and moves on among the tombs, making for the opposite side of the cemetery, the others following in silence. For from the brow of the hill on its westward side, they expect to look down upon the Indian town.
“It must be on t’other side,” observes the gaucho, as they proceed. “I remember the old chief saying the tolderia was west of the hill.”
When half-way across he again reins up, halting his horse alongside one of the scaffolds, conspicuous among the rest by its larger size, as also a certain freshness about the timbers of which it is constructed; some chips scattered around the supports, where these have been chopped and barked, telling of recent erection. It is not this, however, has prompted Gaspar to make stop beside it; but simply that he there sees a place suitable for the stalling of their horses. There is no need to take the animals on to the other side, but better leave them there, and themselves go forward afoot.
Thus reflecting, all three dismount, and attach their horses to the corner posts of the scaffold, each choosing one for his own. Then, with cautious steps, they continue to the outer edge of the circle, and pushing through some trees that skirt it, look to the plain below. Sure enough, there is the thing they expected to see—an Indian town or tolderia. A large lake lies beyond, on whose tranquil surface the moon makes a mirror, as if it were glass. But their eyes rest only upon the town, their ears bent to catch any sound that may come up from it.
It is not long till sounds do ascend, the barking of dogs, with now and then the lowing of cattle, and neighing of horses; but no human voice, nothing to tell that the place is inhabited by man. For there is no smoke from the houses, no lights anywhere, everybody seeming to be asleep.
Nothing strange in all this; nor do they looking down from the hill think it so. Instead, things are just as they should be and as Caspar anticipated they would. For it is now the midnight hour, and since red men must have rest as well as white ones, the Tovas have all retired to their beds or hammocks.
So concluding, and satisfied with what they see—reflecting further that nothing more can be done till morning—the gaucho and his companions go back to their horses, with the intention of taking off the saddles, and otherwise disposing of them for the night.
It was at first proposed to keep them tied to the scaffold-posts, but on a second inspection of the place, Gaspar sees it is not the best one either for their animals or themselves to pass the night in. Should they go to rest under the scaffold, while asleep, their horses turning restive might pull down the posts, and bring rattling about their ears the bones of some dead cacique! Besides, the ground underneath is not nice to repose upon; being without herbage and trampled all over, some parts seeming freshly turned up. The gaucho would prefer a patch of soft grass to lay his limbs along, and this very thing he has noticed while they were out on the brow of the eminence overlooking the town. Here a grand fig-tree had attracted his attention, under its branches seeming the most proper place for them to encamp. Its far-spreading and umbrageous boughs drooping back to the ground and there taking root—as the Indian banyan of which it is the New World representative—enclosed a large space underneath. It would not only give them a shelter from the dews of the night, but concealment from the eyes of anyone who might chance to be passing that way.
With these manifest advantages in favour of the ground under the fig-tree as a camping-place, and the disadvantages of that beneath the scaffold, the latter is without further ado forsaken, and the former taken possession of.
As no camp-fire can be safely kindled, nor food cooked, they must go to sleep supperless.
Fortunately none of them is a-hungered, all having made a hearty meal while within the macaw’s grove. There they had polished off the grand “drumsticks” of the ostrich, by good luck already roasted. So caring not for supper, after having disposed of their horses by tying them to branches of the fig-tree, they stretch themselves along the ground, and seek repose, which on this night they all need, as much as on any other since starting upon their long-protracted expedition.
Still, they do not intend to be all asleep at the same time. In such a place, with the danger of being found in it, that would never do. One of the three must remain awake and on watch; so it is arranged that they take the duty of sentinel in turns. As the present hour appears to be the one calling for keenest vigilance, Caspar volunteers for the first turn of guard; and the other two wrapping their ponchos around them, and resting their heads upon their recados, with a mutual Buenas noches! become silent, if not asleep.
Chapter Forty Six.
A Dead Man Identified.
Whether his young companions be sleeping or awake, the gaucho does not stay by their side; but, almost as soon as seeing them disposed along the earth, slips out from under the fig-tree, and facing towards the central part of the cemetery, walks off in that direction. His object is to revisit the scaffold lately left by them, and make a more detailed examination of it. Not that he cares aught about the structure itself. It is not the first time for him to have seen similar burying-places of the Chaco Indians, and he knows as much about them as he cares to know. Nor is his object, in returning to this particular one, of a very definite character; but rather because a vague idea or instinct has come into his mind which prompts him to the act—a sort of presentiment that he may there see something to throw light on much of what has been all along mystifying him. To go thither will in no way interfere with his duties as a sentinel, since he can perform these equally well or better by moving about. Besides, it will help to beguile the time, as also make him familiar with the ground they have got upon—a familiarity that may hereafter prove of service to them. As already stated, he had observed that the scaffold is of recent erection, telling that the man or woman laid upon it cannot have been very long dead. He had, moreover, noticed, while attaching his bridle to one of the uprights, that a series of notches was cut in the post, evidently to facilitate ascent. In all likelihood, the surviving relatives of the deceased are in the habit of coming thither at periodical intervals, to adorn the tomb with flowers or other tokens of affectionate memory; perhaps bring votive offerings to the spirit which presides over that consecrated spot. But whatever the purpose of the notches, the gaucho knows they will enable him to climb up with ease, and see what rests upon the platform.
Approaching the catafalque with silent tread, he stands for a time gazing at it without making any movement to mount up. Not from curiosity does he so regard it; but something akin to awe has stolen over his spirit, and he almost fears further to intrude on the sacredness of the place. Besides, the act requires caution. What if some of the Indians given to nocturnal straying should chance to come that way, and see him up those stairs, desecrating the abode of the dead? Even were there no other reason for his fearing to be found in that place, the act itself would make him liable to punishment—possibly no less than death! For among the Tovas, as many other tribes of South American Indians—infidels though they are called—the tombs of their dead are held as sacred as those of the Spanish Christians who so designate them.
Notwithstanding all this, Gaspar the gaucho is not to be baulked in his design. He has not come to the bottom of that curious catafalque, to go away again without seeing what is above. And though he stands hesitating, it is only for a short while, finally making up his mind to ascend.
Ascend he does; laying hold of one of the notched corner posts, and climbing the primitive ladder, as it were, set ready and awaiting him.
As the moon is by this far down in the sky, its beams are not obstructed by the roof thatch, but fall obliquely upon the floor of the platform beneath. There, lying at full length, the gaucho perceives a form, easily recognisable as that of a human being, though swathed in various kinds of cloths, which cover it from head to foot. The body of a man, moreover, as can be told by its size and shape; while beside, and arranged around it, are certain insignia proclaiming it to be that of some distinguished chieftain of the Tovas. There are spears, shields, macanas, lazoes, bolas—among them the bola perdida, some of these weapons placed upon the platform alongside the corpse, others suspended from the beams and poles supporting the thatch of the roof. There is horse-gear as well—the multifarious trappings which appertain to the caparison of a gaucho’s steed—recado, carona, caronilla, jerga, with Mameluke bitts and spurs of immensely large rowels; for all these are possessed by the higher order of pampas Indians, and notably their chiefs—property they have picked up in some plundering expedition, where gauchos themselves have been their victims.
Just such a thought passes through the mind of gaucho Gaspar, as his eyes rest on the grand array displayed on the cacique’s tomb. For that it is the tomb of a cacique, and one of grand note, he has not a doubt, seeing such a selection of trophies. In addition to the war weapons and implements of the chase, there are articles of dress and adornment; bracelets of gold, bead necklets and belts, with coronets of bright-coloured plumes; while most conspicuous of all is a large feather-embroidered manta, covering the corpse from head to foot, even concealing the face.
Still there is nothing in all this to astonish Gaspar Mendez, or in any way give him a surprise. He has seen the like before, and often among the Auracanian Indians, who are kindred with the tribes of the Chaco. He but makes the reflection, how silly it is in these savages thus to expose such fine commodities to the weather, and let them go to loss and decay—all to satisfy a heathen instinct of superstition! And thus reflecting, he would in all probability have lowered himself back to the ground, but for that presentiment still upon him. It influences him to remain a moment longer balancing himself upon the notched upright, and gazing over the platform. Just then the moon getting clear of some cirrhus clouds, and shining brighter than ever, lights up an object hitherto unnoticed by him, but one he recognises as an old acquaintance. He starts on beholding a felt hat of the Tyrolese pattern, which he well remembers to have seen worn by his master, the hunter-naturalist, and by him given to the aged cacique of the Tovas as a token of friendship. And now he feels the presentiment which has been upon him all explained and fulfilled. Springing up on the platform, and uncovering the face of the corpse, he beholds—Naraguana!
Chapter Forty Seven.
Gaspar Despondent.
“Naraguana dead!” exclaims the gaucho, as standing upon the scaffold he gazes upon the form at his feet. “Santissima! this is strange!”
“But is it certainly the old cacique?” he adds, again stooping down and raising the selvedge of feather cloth, which had fallen back over the face. Once more exposed to view, the features deeply-furrowed with age—for Naraguana was a very old man—and now further shrivelled by the dry winds of the Chaco, with the skin drawn tight over high-cheek bones, and hollow, sightless sockets, where once shone pair of eyes coal-black and keen—all this under the pale moonlight, presents a spectacle at once weird-like and ghastly, as if of a death’s head itself!
Still it is the face of Naraguana, as at a glance the gaucho perceives, muttering, “Yes; it’s the old chief, sure enough. Dead, and dried up like a mummy! Died of old age, no doubt. Well,” he continues, in graver tone, “by whatever way he may have come to his end, no greater misfortune could have befallen us. Carrai! it’s Satan’s own luck!”
Having thus delivered himself, he stands for a while on the platform, but no longer looking at the corpse, nor any of the relics around it. Instead, his eyes are turned towards the tree, under whose shadow his youthful comrades are reclining, and as he supposes asleep. On that side is the moon, and as her light falls over his face, there can be seen upon it an expression of great anxiety and pain—greater than any that has marked it since that moment, when in the sumac grove he bent over the dead body of his murdered master.
But the troubled look now overspreading his features springs not from grief, nor has anger aught to do with it. Instead, it is all apprehension. For now, as though a curtain had been suddenly lifted before his eyes, he sees beyond it, there perceiving for himself and his companions danger such as they had not yet been called upon to encounter. All along the route their thoughts were turned to Naraguana, and on him rested their hopes. Naraguana can do nothing for them now.
“No!” reflects the gaucho, despairingly; “we can expect no help from him. And who else is there to give it? Who, besides, would have the power to serve us, even if the will be not wanting? No one, I fear. Mil Diablos! it’s a black look-out, now—the very blackest!”
Again facing round to the corpse, and fixing his eyes upon the still uncovered face, he seems to examine it as though it were a trail upon the pampas, in order to discover what tale it may tell. And just for a like purpose does he now scrutinise the features of the dead cacique, as appears by his soliloquy succeeding.
“Yes; I understand it all now—everything. He’s been dead some time—at least two or three weeks. That explains their leaving the other town in such haste, and coming on here. Dead, or deadly sick, before he left it, the old chief would have himself to think of, and so sent no word to us at the estancia. No blame to him for not doing so. And now that the young one’s in power, with a fool’s head and a wolf’s heart, what may we expect from him? Ah, what? In a matter like this, neither grace nor mercy. I know he loves the muchachita, with such love as a savage may—passionately, madly. All the worse for her, poor thing! And all the poorer chance for us to get her away from him. Por Dios! it does look dark.”
After a pause, he continues:
“His making her a captive and bringing her on here, I can quite understand; that’s all natural enough, since his father being dead, there’s no longer any one to hinder him doing as he likes. It’s only odd his chancing to meet master out that day, so far from home. One would suppose he’d been watching the estancia, and saw them as they went away from it. But then, there were no strange tracks about the place, nor anywhere near it. And I could discover none by the old tolderia that seemed at all fresh, excepting those of the shod horse. But whoever rode him didn’t seem to have come anywhere near the house; certainly not on this side. For all that, he might have approached it from the other, and then ridden round, to meet the Indians afterwards at the crossing of the stream. Well, I shall give the whole ground a better examination once we get back.”
“Get back!” he exclaims, repeating his words after a pause, and in changed tone. “Shall we ever get back? That’s the question now, and a very doubtful one it is. But,” he adds, turning to descend from the scaffold, “it won’t help us any on the road my remaining up here. If the old cacique’s body still had the breath in it, may be it might. But as it hasn’t the sooner I bid good-bye to it the better. Adios, Naraguana! Pasa V. buena noche!”
Were death itself staring him in the face, instead of seeing it as he does in the face of another man, Gaspar the gaucho, could not forego a jest, so much delights he to indulge in his ludicrous humour.
After unburdening himself as above, he once more closes his arms around the notched post, and lowers himself from the platform.
But again upon the ground, and standing with face toward the fig-tree, the gravity of its expression is resumed, and he seems to hesitate about returning to the place of bivouac, where his youthful companions are now no doubt enjoying the sweets of a profound slumber.
“A pity to disturb them!” he mutters to himself; “and with such a tale as I have now to tell. But it must be told, and at once. Now that everything’s changed, new plans must be thought of, and new steps taken. If we’re to enter the Indian town at all, it will have to be in a different way from what we intended. Caspita! how the luck’s turned against us!”
And with this desponding reflection, he moves off from the scaffold; and, making his way among the mausoleums, once more approaches the spot where the South American banyan casts its sombre shadow over them.
Chapter Forty Eight.
Breaking bad News.
Caspar has been mistaken in supposing the other two asleep. One of them is—Ludwig, who sleeps soundly, and to all appearance peacefully. Not that he is indifferent to the seriousness of the situation, or less anxious about the upshot, than Cypriano. He but slumbers, because he is naturally of a more somnolent habit than his cousin, as also, being the weaker of the two, from the effects of a journey so long sustained, and travelling at such a pace. Moreover, he is not even yet quite recovered from the damage done him by the gymnoti; their electricity still acting on his nervous system, and producing a certain lassitude.
There is yet another reason why Ludwig has let himself go to sleep—one of a moral nature. As is known, he still adheres to his belief in the fidelity of Naraguana, and, so believing, is least of them all apprehensive about the result. At this moment he may be dreaming of the old cacique, though little dreams he that his dead body is so near!
Altogether different is it with Cypriano. This night there is no sleep for him, nor does he think of taking any. Though he lay down alongside his cousin, wrapping himself in his poncho, he did not long remain recumbent. Instead, soon starting to his feet again, he has been pacing to and fro under the fig-tree, wondering where Gaspar has gone. For, as known, the gaucho had slipped off without making noise, or saying word.
Missing him, the young Paraguayan would call out his name. But he fears to raise his voice, lest it reach other ears than those for which it was intended. Reflecting, moreover, that Gaspar is pretty sure to have some good reason for absenting himself, and that his absence will not likely be for long, he awaits his return in silence. Therefore, when the gaucho in coming back draws nigh to the fig-tree, he sees a form within the periphery of its shadow, that of Cypriano, standing ready to receive him. The latter first speaks, asking: “Where have you been, Gaspar?”
“Oh! only taking a turn among the tombs.”
“And you’ve seen something among them to make you uneasy?”
“Why do you say that, Señorito?”
“Because I can see it in your countenance.” The gaucho, as he approaches, has the moon full upon his face, and by her light the other has observed the troubled look.
“What is it?” the youth goes on to ask, in a tone of eager anxiety, all the more from seeing that the other hesitates to give the explanation. “You’ve discovered something—a new danger threatens us? Come, Gaspar, you may as well tell me of it at once.”
“I intend telling you, hijo mio. I was only waiting till we were all three together. For now, I think, we’ll have to rouse Master Ludwig. You’ve conjectured aright, as I’m sorry to say. I have seen something that’s not as we would wish it. Still, it may not be so bad as I’ve been making it.”
Notwithstanding this hopeful proviso, Cypriano is himself now really alarmed; and, impatient to learn what the new danger is, he stoops down over his cousin, takes hold of his arm, and shakes him out of his slumbers.
Ludwig, starting to his feet, confusedly inquires why he has been disturbed. Then Gaspar, coming close to them, so that he need not speak in a loud voice, gives an account of what he has discovered, with his own views relating to it.
As he himself did, both the boys at once comprehend the changed situation, with a like keen sense of the heightened danger to result from it. Naraguana’s death has extinguished all hope of help from him. It may be both the cause and forecast of their own!
Their prospects are now gloomy indeed; but they do not idly dwell on them, or give way to utter despondency. That would be unavailing; besides, there is no time for it. Something must be done to meet the altered circumstances. But what? A question to which none of them makes an immediate answer, since none can.
For awhile all three stand silent, considering. Only a short while, when Gaspar is again stirred to activity, by reflecting that even now they are not safe. One of their horses, frightened by an owl that has flapped its wings close to its face, has snorted, striking the hard ground with his hoof, and making a noise that reverberates throughout the cemetery, echoing among the scaffolds. What if he should set to neighing, in answer to that which now and then comes up from the town below? The thing is too probable, and the result manifest. A single neigh might betray them; for what would horses be doing up there upon the sacred hill? So would any Indian ask who should chance to hear it.
“We must muffle our animals,” says Caspar. “And what’s more, take them back to the other side, where we came up. There we can better conceal them among the bushes. Besides, if it should come to our being under the necessity of a speedy retreat, we’ll be nearer to the back-track, and have a fairer chance of getting off. Señoritos! get your jergas, and wrap them round your horses’ heads.”
He sets the example by so disposing of his own; and, accustomed to quick action in matters of the kind, all three soon have their animals “tapado.” Then, leading them across to where the path ascends on the opposite side, they place them under cover of some thick bushes growing near by, Caspar saying:
“They’ll be safe enough here, I take it; at all events till the morning. Then we may move them elsewhere, and if we’re to have a run for it, remember, hijos mios, ’twill be a race for our lives. There’s no Naraguana now to stand between us and that young wolf, who I fear has got the dear little lamb in his clutches, so fast we’ll have great—”
The effect of his words are such, upon those listening to them, that he suddenly interrupts himself in what he was about to say, and in changed tone continues: “Carramba! we’ll rescue her yet, Naraguana, or no Naraguana. It can be done without him, and I think I know the way.”
In saying so, Caspar is practising a slight deception, his object being to cheer his young companions, over whom his last speech seemed to cast the gloom of despair. For he has as yet thought of no way, nor conceived any definite plan of action. When asked by Cypriano to explain himself, he is silent; and appealed to, he answers by evasion. The truth is, that up to the instant of his finding Naraguana’s body upon the scaffold, he too had been trusting all to what the latter would do for them; and no more than Ludwig could he believe the good old chief to have turned traitor to the palefaced friend so long under his protection, much less connived at his assassination. Now, the gaucho knows he has had no hand either in the murder of his master, or the abduction of that master’s daughter. These events must have occurred subsequent to his death, and, while they were in the act of occurrence, Naraguana was sleeping his last sleep under his plumed manta upon that elevated platform. His son and successor—for Gaspar doubts not that Aguara has succeeded him in the chieftainship—is answerable for the deed of double crime, whoever may have been his aiders and abettors.
Of course, this makes the case all the more difficult to deal with, since the new cacique, by this time established in full plenitude of power, will have it all his own way, and can carry things with a high hand, as he most surely will. To make appeal to him for the restitution of the captive would be manifestly idle, like asking a tiger to surrender the prey it holds between its teeth or in its claws. The gaucho has no thought of so appealing, any more than either of the others. And no more than they has he formed a plan of future action. Only now, after their disposal of the horses, is his brain busy in the conception of some scheme suited to the changed circumstances; and hence, on Cypriano asking him to tell the way he knew of, he but replies evasively, saying:
“Be patient, Señorito! Wait till we’ve got things a little snug, then I’ll take pleasure in telling you. But we mustn’t remain here. On the other side of this queer cemetery, where the road runs down to the tolderia—as I’ve no doubt there is such—that will be the place for us to spend the night in. There we can see and hear what passes on the plain, and should any one stray up we’ll be warned of it, either by our eyes or ears, in good time to get out of their way. So let us cross over. And we must step silently,” he adds, pointing to the cacique’s scaffold tomb, “lest we disturb the sleep of old Naraguana, up yonder.”
With this facetious remark, made partly in the indulgence of his usual humour, but as much to raise the spirits of his young companions, he strides off among the odd structures, making direct for the other side of the cemetery, Ludwig and Cypriano following in single file.