At the crisis described, the Indian party is no longer travelling upon the Pilcomayo’s bank, nor near it. They have parted from it at a point where the river makes one of its grand curves, and are now crossing the neck of the peninsula embraced within its windings. This isthmus is in width at least twenty miles, and of a character altogether different from the land lying along the river’s edge. In short, a sterile, treeless expanse, or “travesia”—for such there are in the Chaco—not barren because of infertility in the soil, but from the want of water to fertilise it. Withal, it is inundated at certain periods of the year by the river’s overflow, but in the dry season parched by the rays of a tropical sun. Its surface is then covered with a white efflorescence, which resembles a heavy hoar frost; this, called salitré, being a sort of impure saltpetre, left after the evaporation and subsidence of the floods.
They have entered this cheerless waste, and are about midway across it, when the cry of alarm is heard; he who gave utterance to it being older than the others, and credited with greater knowledge of things. That which had caught his attention, eliciting the cry, is but a phenomenon of Nature, though not one of an ordinary kind; still, not so rare in the region of the Chaco; since all of them have more than once witnessed it. But the thing itself is not yet apparent save to him who has shouted, and this only by the slightest sign giving portent of its approach. For it is, in truth, a storm.
Even after the alarmist has given out his warning note, and stands on his horse’s hips, gazing off in a certain direction, the others, looking the same way, can perceive nothing to account for his strange behaviour. Neither upon the earth, nor in the heavens, does there appear anything that should not be there. The sun is coursing through a cloudless sky, and the plain, far as eye can reach, is without animate object upon it; neither bird nor beast having its home in the salitré. Nothing observable on that wide, cheerless waste, save the shadows of themselves and their horses, cast in dark silhouette across the hoary expanse, and greatly elongated; for it is late in the afternoon, and the sun almost down to the horizon.
“What is it?” asks Aguara, the first to speak, addressing himself to the Indian who gave out the cry. “You appear to apprehend danger?”
“And danger there is, chief,” returns the other. “Look yonder!” He points to the level line between earth and sky, in the direction towards which they are travelling. “Do you not see something?”
“No, nothing.”
“Not that brown-coloured stripe just showing along the sky’s edge, low, as if it rested on the ground?”
“Ah, yes; I see that. Only a little mist over the river, I should say.”
“Not that, chief. It’s a cloud, and one of a sort to be dreaded. See! it’s rising higher, and, it I’m not mistaken, will ere long cover the whole sky.”
“But what do you make of it? To me it looks like smoke.”
“No; it isn’t that either. There’s nothing out that way to make fire—neither grass nor trees; therefore, it can’t be smoke.”
“What, then? You appear to know!”
“I do. ’Tis dust.”
“Dust! A drove of wild horses? Or may they be mounted? Ah! you think it’s a party of Guaycurus?”
“No, indeed. But something we may dread as much—ay, more—than them. If my eyes don’t deceive me, that’s a tormenta.”
“Ha!” exclaims the young cacique, at length comprehending. “A tormenta, you think it is?”
The others of the band mechanically mutter the same word, in like tones of apprehension. For although slow to perceive the sign, even yet but slightly perceptible, all of them have had experience of the danger.
“I do, chief,” answers he interrogated. “Am now sure of it.”
While they are still speaking it—the cloud—mounts higher against the blue background of sky, as also becomes more extended along the line of the horizon. Its colour, too, has sensibly changed, now presenting a dun yellowish appearance, like that mixture of smoke and mist known as a “London fog.” But it is somewhat brighter, as though it hung over, half-concealing and smothering, the flames of some grand conflagration.
And as they continue regarding it, red corruscations begin to shoot through its opaque mass, which they can tell to be flashes of lightning. Yet all this while, upon the spot where they have pulled up the sun is shining serenely, and the air still and tranquil as if gale or breeze had never disturbed it!
But it is a stillness abnormal, unnatural, accompanied by a scorching heat, with an atmosphere so close as to threaten suffocation.
This, however, lasts but a short while. For in less than ten minutes after the cloud was first descried, a wind reaches them blowing directly from it at first, in puffs and gusts, but cold as though laden with sleet, and so strong as to sweep several of them from the backs of their horses. Soon after all is darkness above and around them. Darkness as of night; for the dust has drifted over the sun, and its disc is no longer visible—having disappeared as in a total eclipse, but far more suddenly.
It is too late for them to retreat to any place of shelter, were one ever so near, which there is not. And well know they the danger of being caught in that exposed spot; so well that the scene now exhibited in their ranks is one of fright and confusion.
Terrified exclamations are sent up on all sides, but only one voice of warning, this from him who had first descried the cloud.
“From your horses!” he calls out, “take shelter behind them, and cover your faces with your jergas! If you don’t you’ll be blinded outright.”
His counsel acts as a command; though it is not needed, all of them, as himself, sensible of the approaching peril. In a trice they have dropped to the ground, and plucking the pieces of skins which serve them as saddles, from the backs of their horses, muffle up their faces as admonished. Then each clutching the halter of his own, and holding it so as to prevent the animal changing position, they await the onslaught of the storm.
Meanwhile, Aguara has not been inactive. Instead of having seized the pony’s bridle-rein, he has passed round to the rear of the troop, leading his captive along with him; for the wind strikes them in front. There in the lee of all, better sheltered, he dismounts, flings his arms around the unresisting girl, and sets her afoot upon the ground. He does all this gently, as though he were a friend or brother! For he has not lost hope he may yet win her heart.
“Star of my life,” he says to her, speaking in the Tovas tongue, which she slightly understands. “As you see we’re in some danger, but it will soon pass. Meanwhile, we must take steps to guard against it. So, please to lie down, and this will protect you.”
While speaking, he takes the plumed cloak from his shoulders and spreads it over those of the captive, at the same time covering her head with it, as if it were a hood. Then he gently urges her to lie on the ground.
To all she submits mechanically, and without offering opposition; though she little cares about the dust-storm—whether it blind or altogether destroy her.
Soon after it is on and over them in all its fury, causing their horses to cower and kick, many screaming in affright or from the pain they have to endure. For not only does the tormenta carry dust with it, but sand, sticks, and stones, some of the latter so large and sharp as often to inflict severe wounds. Something besides in that now assailing them; which sweeping across the salitral has lifted the sulphureous efflorescence, that beats into their eyes bitter and blinding as the smoke of tobacco. But for having muffled up their faces, more than one of the party would leave that spot sightless, if not smothered outright.
For nearly an hour the tempest continues, the wind roaring in their ears, and the dust and gravel clouting against their naked skins, now and then a sharp angled pebble lacerating them. At times the blast is so strong they have difficulty in keeping their places; still more in holding their horses to windward. And all the while there is lightning and thunder, the last loud and rolling continuously. At length the wind, still keenly cold, is accompanied by a sleety rain, which pours upon them in torrents, chill as if coming direct from the snowy slopes of the Cordilleras—as in all likelihood it does.
They know that this is a sign of the tormenta approaching its end, which soon after arrives; terminating almost as abruptly as it had begun. The dust disappears from the sky, that which has settled on the ground now covering its surface with a thick coating of mud—converted into this by the rain—while the sun again shines forth in all its glory, in a sky bright and serene as if cloud had never crossed it!
The tormenta is over, or has passed on to another part of the great Chaco plain.
And now the Tovas youths, their naked skins well washed by the shower, and glistening like bronze fresh from the furnace—some of them, however, bleeding from the scratches they have received—spring upon their feet, re-adjust the jergas on the backs of their horses, and once more remount.
Then their young chief, by the side of the captive girl, having returned to his place at their head, they forsake that spot of painful experience, and continue their journey so unexpectedly interrupted.
It is scarce necessary to say, that the storm that over took the Indian party was the same of which the barometer-tree had given warning to Gaspar and his young companions. But although many a long league separated the Indians from those following upon their trail, and it would take the latter at least another day to reach the spot where the former had met the tormenta, both were beset by it within less than half-an-hour of the same time. The Indians first, of course, since it came from the quarter towards which all were travelling, and therefore in the teeth of pursuers as pursued.
But the trackers were not called upon to sustain its shock, as those they were tracking up. Instead of its coming upon them in an exposed situation, before its first puffs became felt they were safe out of harm’s way, having found shelter within the interior of a cavern. It was this Gaspar alluded to when saying, he knew of a place that would give them an asylum. For the gaucho had been twice over this ground before—once on a hunting excursion in the company of his late master; and once at an earlier period of his life on an expedition of less pleasant remembrance, when, as a captive himself, he was carried up the Pilcomayo by a party of Guaycuru Indians, from whom he was fortunate in making escape.
His knowledge of the cave’s locality, however, was not obtained during his former and forced visit to the district they are now traversing; but in that made along with the hunter-naturalist; who, partly out of curiosity, but more for geological investigation, had entered and explored it.
“It’s by the bank of a little arroyo that runs into the Pilcomayo, some three or four miles above the big river. And, as I take it, not much further from where we are now. But we must make a cross-cut to reach it in the quickest time.”
This Gaspar says as they part from the barometer-tree. Following out his intention he heads his horse towards the open plain, and forsakes the Indian trail, the others following his lead.
They now go in full gallop, fast as their horses can carry them; for they have no longer any doubts about the coming on of a tormenta. The forecast given them by the flowers of the üinay is gradually being made good by what they see—a dun yellowish cloud rising against the horizon ahead. The gaucho well understands the sign, soon as he sees this recognising it as the dreaded dust-storm.
It approaches them just as it had done the Indians. First the atmosphere becoming close and hot as the interior of an oven; then suddenly changing to cold, with gusts of wind, and the sky darkening as though the sun were eclipsed.
But, unlike the others, they are not exposed to the full fury of the blast; neither are they in danger of being blinded by the sulphureous dust, nor pelted with sticks and stones. Before the storm has thus developed itself they reach the crest of the cliff overhanging the arroyo; and urging their horses down a sloping path remembered by Gaspar, they get upon the edge of the stream itself. Then, turning up it, and pressing on for another hundred yards, they arrive at the cavern’s mouth, just as the first puff of the chilly wind sweeps down the deep rut-like valley through which the arroyo runs.
“In time!” exclaims the gaucho. “Thanks to the Virgin, we’re in time! with not a second to spare,” he adds, dismounting, and leading his horse into the arching entrance, the others doing the same.
Once inside, however, they do not give way to inaction; for Gaspar well knows they are not yet out of danger.
“Come, muchachos,” he cries to them, soon as they have disposed of their animals, “there’s something more to be done before we can call ourselves safe. A tormenta’s not a thing to be trifled with. There isn’t corner or cranny in this cave the dust wouldn’t reach to. It could find its way into a corked bottle, I believe. Carramba! there it comes!”
The last words are spoken as a whiff of icy wind, now blowing furiously down the ravine, turns into the cavern’s mouth, bringing with it both dust and dry leaves.
For a moment the gaucho stands in the entrance gazing out; the others doing likewise. Little can they see; for the darkness is now almost opaque, save at intervals, when the ravine is lit up by jets of forked and sheet lightning. But much do they hear; the loud bellowing of wind, the roaring of thunder, and the almost continuous crashing of trees, whose branches break off as though they were but brittle glass. And the stream which courses past close to the cave’s mouth, now a tiny mulct, will soon be a raging, foaming torrent, as Gaspar well knows.
They stay not to see that, nor aught else. They have other work before them—the something of which the gaucho spoke, and to which he now hastily turns, crying out—
“Your ponchos, my lads! Get them, quick! We must close up the entrance with them, otherwise we’ll stand a good chance of being smothered. Vaya!”
Neither needs urging to haste. Young as they are, they too have had experience of a tormenta. More than once they have witnessed it, remembering how in their house, near Assuncion, it drove the dust through the keyholes of me doors, finding its way into every crack and crevice, making ridges across the floor, just as snow in northern lands—of which, however, they know nothing, save from what they have read, or been told by one who will tell them of such things no more.
In a few seconds’ time, three ponchos—for each possesses one—are snatched from the cantles of their saddles, and as speedily spread across the entrance of the cave—just covering it, with not an inch to spare. With like speed and dexterity, they join them together, in a rough but firm stitching done by the nimble fingers of the gaucho—his thread a strip of thong, and for needle the sharp terminal spine of the pita plant—one of which he finds growing near by. They attach them at top by their knife blades stuck into seams of the stratified rock, and at bottom by stones laid along the border; these heavy enough to keep them in place against the strongest gust of wind.
All this done, they breathe freely, now feeling secure; and after a last look at the screen to assure himself of its being reliable, the gaucho turns to his companions, quietly remarking, “Now, muchachos, I fancy we need have no more fear of Mr Tormenta.”
As they are now in the midst of amorphous darkness, it might be imagined nothing could be done but keep their place, or go groping idly about. Not so, however. Gaspar has no intention of letting the time pass in such an unprofitable manner; instead, he at once resumes speech, and along with it action.
“Now, young masters,” he says, making a movement towards the place where they had left their horses, “since we are shut up here, I don’t see why we shouldn’t make ourselves as comfortable as we can under the circumstances; and the best way to begin will be with what’s usually the winding up of a day’s work—that’s supper. Our bit of rough riding has given me the appetite of a wolf, and I feel as if I could eat one red-raw. Suppose we have another set-to at the shoulder of mutton? What say you, señoritos?”
They answer in the affirmative, both being as hungry as himself.
“We sha’n’t have to eat in darkness either,” he proceeds. “Luckily, I’ve brought with me a bit of candle—best wax at that. A costly affair it was when whole; being one of a pair I had to pay for when my poor mother died, to be used at her funeral, and for which the rascally padres charged me five pesos a-piece—because consecrated, as they called out. As they stood me so much, I thought I might as well save the stumps; which I did, and have got one of them here. Starting out, it occurred to me we might some time need it, as you see we do now; so I slipped it into my saddle-bags.”
While speaking, he has moved on to his horse, and got beside him without much straying; for his former visit to the cavern has made him familiar with its topography, and he could go anywhere through it without a glimmer of light to guide him. Plunging his hand into his ample alparejas, and rummaging about for a short while, he gets hold of the bit of unburnt candle—souvenir of a melancholy ceremony, which, however, he had long ceased to mourn over, since his mother has been dead for many years.
He has drawn it out; removed the scrap of buckskin in which it was wrapped; and with flint and steel is proceeding to strike a light, when a sound reaches his ears that causes him to suspend operations, and stand intently listening for its repetition.
Simultaneously has it been heard by the other two, as also by the three horses; these last, on hearing it, showing their affright by a series of snorts, while they dance about over the floor of the cavern. For it is a sound which, heard in any part of tropical America, whether on sunlit plain or in shady forest, strikes terror to the heart of all who hear it, be it man, bird, or beast. No living creature in that land but dreads the cry of the jaguar.
“El tigre!” exclaims Gaspar in a subdued tone, his voice half-drowned by a second roar from the great feline, this time louder and more prolonged.
“Where is it?” they ask one another hurriedly, and in whispers, fearing to speak out. For loud as is the creature’s voice as it reverberates through the hollow cavity, what with the bellowing of the wind and the trampling of their horses’ hoofs on the hard rock, it is impossible to tell whence it came, and whether the jaguar be outside the cavern or within. About this there is a difference of opinion among them, but only for an instant—all three agreeing, as for the third time the terrifying note is sounded. Then they believe it to have come from outside. But again they as quickly differ, at hearing a fourth repetition of it; this as certainly seeming to have been uttered inside the cavern. Once more changing their minds, when, for the fifth time, the beast gives out its grand roar; since along with it they hear another sound as of some heavy body hurling itself against the screen of spread ponchos, too solid to be mistaken for a puff of wind. Beyond doubt, it is the tiger seeking admittance to the cave!
Though but a few minutes have elapsed since its first fierce note fell upon their ears, they have not stood idly listening. Instead, all three have groped the way to their horses, got hold of their guns, and returned to take stand near the entrance. Gaspar, moreover, has lit the stump of candle, and stuck it upon a projecting point of rock; for he knows the tigre, like other cats, can see in the darkness, and would thus have the advantage of them.
Soon again it treats them to another bit of trumpeting, this time more angrily intoned, as if demanding shelter from the storm, and no doubt as much surprised as puzzled at the strange obstruction debarring entrance to the cave—in all likelihood its lair.
They have stationed themselves in a line facing the screen, and with guns cocked stand ready to fire at the beast, should it persist in its intention to enter. But now, with the light shining upon the ponchos, they see what appears to be its body pressing against these from the outside, though quickly withdrawn, as if the creature recoiled from a thing that awes while perplexing it.
“Hadn’t we better fire at it through the ponchos? Some one of us may hit it.”
Cypriano makes the suggestion.
“No,” dissents Gaspar, “we might all miss that way; and if we did, ’twould drive the tigre mad, and then—”
He is interrupted by another cry from the jaguar; this a fierce scream, showing the animal already maddened enough, or, at all events, madly impatient, and determined no longer to endure exclusion from the cave. For while still continuing that cry, it bounds up against the screen, plucking the knives from their places, tossing off the stones, and laying the entrance open. A gust of wind entering blows out the candle, and all is again darkness. But not silence; for there are noises close to where they stand, which they know must proceed from the jaguar, though different from its former utterances, and to them quite incomprehensible—a succession of growls, snorts, and coughs, as if the beast were being suffocated; while at the same time a heavy body seems to be tumbling and struggling over the floor of the cavern!
“By Saint Jago!” cries Gaspar, first to comprehend what it means, “the brute’s caught in our ponchos! He’s bagged—smothered up! Fire into him! Aim where you hear the noise. Tira!”
At the word, their three guns go off together; and then, to make sure, another shot additional from the double barrelled piece of Cypriano; Ludwig’s gun being the rifle that belonged to his father, found where the latter had fallen.
And sure work have their shots made of it. For as they stand in the darkness listening, they hear neither growl, nor snort, nor coughing; but, instead, only the wailing of wind and the rumbling of thunder.
“Dead as a door-nail!” pronounces Gaspar, feeling his way to where he had stuck the bit of bees’-wax, and once more setting it alight. Then returning towards the entrance, he sees that he has in everything rightly conjectured. For there, enveloped in the ponchos, with its claws stuck fast into the close-woven fabric of wool, lies the great spotted cat—not at full stretch, but doubled up into a shapeless lump, as it had worked itself in its efforts to get free! Though all their shots had hit it, some of the bullets passing through its body, a quivering throughout its frame tells that life is not yet extinct. But it is extinguished instantly after, by Gaspar laying hold of one of the knives, and giving el tigre the coup de grâce by a cut across its throat; as he does so, saying—
“That’s for your impudence—intruding yourself on three hungry travellers about sitting down to supper!”
Having dragged the dead beast out of their ponchos, they are about to re-adjust these as before, when it strikes them there is no longer any need for closing the cave’s mouth. The first blast of the tormenta having blown over, the dust borne upon it is now in less volume; while the wind, rushing direct down the ravine, carries everything along with it—only an occasional whiff seeking entrance into the cave.
“For the matter of our being blinded,” remarks the gaucho in perceiving this, “we needn’t trouble about shutting the door again. Though if I’m not greatly out in my reckoning, there’s something else may need keeping out—a thing more dangerous than dust.”
“What thing?” he is asked.
“Another tigre. I never knew one of these spotted beauties to be about alone. They always hunt in couples; and where there’s a female, the male is sure to be with her. As you see, it’s the lady we’ve closed accounts with, and for certain the gentleman isn’t far-off. Out in that storm, he’ll be in the same way making for this snug shelter. So we may look for his worship to present himself at any moment.”
Ludwig and Cypriano turn their eyes towards the entrance, as though they expected even then to behold the dreaded intruder.
“To keep him out,” pursues Gaspar in a more serious vein, “’twill be no use putting up the ponchos. We can’t trust to the old Tom entangling himself, as did his esposa. That was all an accident. And yet we’re not safe if we leave the entrance open. As we’ve got to stay here all night, and sleep here, we daren’t close an eye so long as he’s ranging about. Instead, we’d have to lie awake, and on the alert.”
“Why can’t we wall it up with those stones?” Cypriano thus interrogates, pointing to some scattered boulders lying about the cave—large blocks that have broken off from its roof, and fallen upon the floor.
“Not a bad idea,” rejoins Gaspar, “and one quite practicable,” he adds, with his eye taking in the dimensions of the cavern’s mouth, but little larger than an ordinary stable door. “You’re right, Señor Cypriano; we can do that.”
Without further speech, they set about the work; first rolling the larger masses of stalactite towards the entrance to form the foundation of the wall. But before having got half-a-dozen of them fixed in their places, a sound reaches their ears which causes them suddenly to desist; for all three recognise it as coming from the throat of a jaguar! Not a loud roar, or scream, such as they heard when that lying dead first made its presence known, but a sort of sniff or snort, as when it was struggling, half-choked by the ponchos. Soon, however, as they stand listening, the snorting changes into a long low growl, ending in a gruff bark; as of a watch-dog awakened by some slight noise, for which he is not sure of its being worth his while to forsake his kennel, or spring upon his feet.
Not thus doubtful are they. Instead, the sounds now heard excite and terrify them as much as any that preceded; for they can tell that tiger Number 2 is, as themselves, within the cave!
“Por Dios!” exclaims Gaspar, in a low tone of voice, “it’s the old Tom sure, and inside too! Ha! that accounts for our not being certain about the she. Both were yelling at the same time, answering one another. Where can the brute be?”
They turn their eyes toward the back of the cavern, but in the dim glimmer can see nothing like a tiger. They only hear noises of different kinds, made by their horses, then freshly affrighted, once more sniffing the air and moving uneasily about.
“Your guns!” cries Gaspar in hurried accents; “get them loaded again! If the tigre attack us, as it’s almost sure to do, our knives will be of little use. Viva, muschachos!”
All together again lay hold of their guns; but where is the ammunition? Stowed in a pair of holsters on the pommel of Cypriano’s saddle, as they well know—powder, balls, percussion-caps, everything. And where is the horse himself; for, left loose, he has moved off to another part of the cavern?
Cypriano taking the candle in hand, they go in search of him. Soon to see that the frightened animal has taken refuge in an angular embayment between two projecting buttresses of rock, where he stands cowering and trembling.
They are about to approach him, going cautiously and with timid steps, when, lo! on a ledge between, they perceive a long yellow body with black spots lying astretch at one end of it, a pair of eyes giving back the light of their candle, with a light almost as brilliant, and at intervals flashing like fire. It is the jaguar.
The sight brings them suddenly to a stand, even causing them to retreat a step or two. For the ledge on which the tigre crouches is directly between them and Cypriano’s horse, and to approach the latter they must pass right under the former; since it is upon a sort of shelf, several feet above the level of the ground. They at once see there is no hope of reaching the needed ammunition without tempting the attack of the tiger; which, by their movements, is becoming at every moment more infuriated, and already seems about to spring upon them. Instinctively, almost mechanically, they move further away, having abandoned the idea of defending themselves with the guns, and fallen back on their only other weapons, the knives. Ludwig counsels retreating altogether out of the cave, and leaving their horses behind. Outside, the wind no longer rages, and the dust seems to have blown past. They but hear the pattering of rain, with peals of thunder, and the swish of the stream, now swollen. But nothing of these need they fear. To the course counselled Cypriano objects, as also Caspar; fearing for their horses, almost sure to be sacrificed to the fury of the enraged jaguar. And where would they be then? Afoot in the midst of the Chaco, helpless as shipwrecked sailors on a raft in mid-ocean!
For a while they remain undecided; only a short while, when they are made aware of that which speedily brings them to a decision, and without any will of their own. In putting space between themselves and the dangerous beast, they have retreated quite up to the cavern’s entrance. There, looking out, they see that egress is debarred them. The stream, swollen by the rain, still pouring down as in a deluge, has lipped up to the level of the cave’s mouth, and rushes past in an impetuous torrent, crested, and carrying huge rocks, with the trunks and broken branches of trees upon its seething current. Neither man nor horse might dare ford it now. They are caught between a torrent and a tiger!
To be shut up in a room with a royal Bengal tiger, or what amounts to the same a cave of small dimensions, is a situation which no one will covet. Nor would it be much improved were the tyrant of the Asiatic jungles transformed into a jaguar—the despot of the American tropical forests. For, although the latter be smaller, and less powerful than the former, in an encounter with man it is equally fierce and dangerous. As regards size, the male jaguar often reaches the measurement of an Indian tigress; while its strength is beyond all proportion to its bulk. Humboldt has made mention of one that dragged the carcase of a horse it had killed across a deep, difficult ravine, and up to the top of a hill; while similar feats have been recorded by Von Tschudi, Darwin, and D’Orbigny.
Familiar with its character and capabilities, no wonder, then, that our gaucho and his companions should feel fear, as they take in the perils besetting them. For there is no knowing how long the jaguar will keep its patience, or its place; and when it shifts they may “look out for squalls.” They can still see it on the ledge; for although the light is feeble, with some dust floating about, through this its glaring eyeballs, as twin stars through a thin stratum of cloud, gleam coal-like and clear. They can see its jaws, too, at intervals open to emit that cry of menace, exposing its blood-red palate, and white serrature of teeth—a sight horrifying to behold! All the while its sinewy tail oscillates from side to side, now and then striking the rock, and breaking off bits of stalactites, that fall in sparkling fragments on the floor. At each repetition of its growl the horses show fresh affright, and dance madly about. For the instinct of the dumb animals seems to admonish them, they are caged with a dangerous companion—they and it alike unable to part company. Their masters know this, and knowing it, are all the more alarmed. A fight is before them; and there appears no chance of shunning it—a hand-to-hand fight, their short-bladed knives against the sharp teeth and claws of a jaguar!
For a time they stand irresolute, even Gaspar himself not knowing what to do. Not for long, however. It would not be the gaucho to surrender to despair. Instead, a thought seems suddenly to have occurred to him—a way of escape from their dilemma—as evinced by his behaviour, to the others yet incomprehensible.
Parting from them, he glides off in the direction of his horse; which happens to be nearest, like Cypriano’s cowering in a crevice of the rock. Soon beside it, he is again seen to plunge his hand into the alparejas, and grope about, just as when searching for the stump of candle.
And now he draws forth something very similar—a packet with a skin covering, tied with a bit of string. Returning to them, and removing the wrapper, he exposes to view a half-dozen little rolls, in shape somewhat like regalia cigars, sharp-pointed at one end, and barbed as arrows.
At a glance, both boys see what they are. They have not been brought up in a country where bull-fighting, as in all Spanish America, is the principal pastime, without having become acquainted with most matters relating to it. And what Gaspar has brought before their eyes are some torterillas, or spitting-devils, used, along with the banderillas for rousing the fury of the bull while being goaded by the picadores round the arena, before the matador makes his final assault. Gaspar, who in early life has played picador himself in the bull-fights of San Rosario, knows how to manufacture all the implements pertaining to the funcion de toros, and has usually kept a stock of torterillas on hand, chiefly for the amusement of the Tovas youths, who were accustomed to visit the estancia.
Often, while dwelling at Assuncion, had he witnessed the wonder and delight with which the savages who came there regarded all sorts of fireworks; and it had occurred to him that, in the event of their encountering strange Indians, some “spitting-devils” might prove of service. So, at starting out on their present expedition, just as with the bit of wax candle, he had tossed a packet of them into his saddle-bags.
He does not give this explanation till afterwards. Now there is no time for talking; he must act, and instantly. But how he intends acting, or what he means to do with the torterillas, neither of his youthful comrades can tell or guess.
They are not kept long in ignorance. Snatching the candle from Cypriano, who has been carrying it—with this in one hand and a torterilla in the other—he moves off in the direction of the ledge, where luckily the jaguar still lies astretch. Possibly the reports of the guns have cowed it to keeping its place. Whether or no, it has kept it without change of attitude or position; though at intervals giving utterance to long low growls, with an occasional bark between.
Advancing cautiously, and in silence, the gaucho gets within six paces of it. This he deems near enough for his purpose; which, by this time, the others comprehend. It is to cast the torterilla at the tiger, and, if possible, get the barbed point to penetrate the creature’s skin, and there stick.
He makes the attempt, and succeeds. First having put the primed end into the candle’s flame, and set the fuse on fire, he launches the “Devil” with such sure aim, that it is seen to fix itself in the jaguar’s back, just over the right shoulder.
The brute, feeling the sting, starts to its feet with an angry scream; this instantly changing to a cry of affright, as the caked powder catches fire, and fizzing up, envelopes it in a shower of sparks. Not a second longer stays it on the ledge, but bounding off makes for the cave’s mouth, as if Satan himself had taken hold of its tail. So sudden and unexpected is its retreat, that Ludwig and Cypriano, to get out of the way, go tumbling over the stones; while Gaspar comes nigh doing the same; in the scramble dropping the candle, and of course extinguishing it. But the light goes out only with the jaguar itself; the brute bounding on with the sparks like the tail of a comet streaming behind, illumining the whole cavern, and causing the stalactites to glitter and sparkle, as if its roof were frosted with real diamonds!
In an instant after, all is darkness; simultaneously with the light going out, a sound reaching their ears, as of some solid body, falling heavily upon water—which they know to be the tiger plunging into the stream. That puts out the “spitting-devil,” and no doubt along with it, or soon after, the life of the animal it had so affrighted; for even the king of American beasts could not escape being drowned in that foaming, seething flood.
Soon as satisfied that the enemy is hors de combat, and the coast clear, Gaspar gropes about for the candle, and finding, once more lights it. Then in his usual fashion, winding up with some quaint remark, he says:—
“No more caterwauling to-night, I fancy, unless the kittens be about too. If they be, it’ll give us a bit of sport, drowning them. Now, señoritos! I think we may sit down to supper, without fear of being again baulked of our maté and mutton.”
As the darkness, due to the storm, has now been succeeded by the more natural darkness of night, the trackers, for this day, cannot proceed further, were they ever so eager. Besides, there is another bar to their continuing; one still more directly obstructive, even forbidding their exit from the cave. This, the arroyo, which now in full flood fills the ravine up to the cliff’s base, there leaving no path for either man or horse. That by which they approached is covered beyond fording depth, with a current so swift as to sweep the strongest animal from its feet, even were it an elephant. And to attempt reaching the opposite side by swimming, would only result in their getting carried down to be drowned to a certainty, or have the life crushed out of them on the rocks below.
Gaspar knowing all this, does not dream of making any such rash experiment. On the contrary, as he has signified, he designs them to remain all night in the cavern. Indeed, there is no alternative, as he observes, explaining how egress is forbidden, and assuring them that they are, in point of fact, as much prisoners as though the doors of a jail were shut and locked upon them.
Their imprisonment, however, need not last till the morning; so far as the flood is concerned. And this he also makes known to them, himself aware that the waters in the arroyo, will subside as rapidly as they had risen. It is one of those short rivulets, whose floods are over almost as soon as the rain which causes them. Looking out again near the hour of midnight, they see his prediction verified. The late swollen and fast-rushing stream has become reduced to nearly its normal dimensions, and runs past in gentle ripple, while the moon shining full upon it, shows not a flake of foam.
They could even now pass out of the cave, and on up the cliff where they came down, if they desired to do so. More, they might with such a clear moon, return to the river’s bank and continue on along the trail they had forsaken. A trail so plain as it, could be followed in a light far more faint; at least, so think they. So believing, Cypriano, as ever impatient to get on, is greatly inclined to this course, and chafes at the irksomeness of delay. But Gaspar objects, giving his reasons.
“If we were to go on now,” he says, “it wouldn’t better us a bit. All we’d gain by it would be the league or so from this to the river. Once there, and attempting to travel up its bank, we’d find scores of little creeks that run into it, in full freshet, and have to swim our horses across them. That would only lose time, instead of gaining it. Now, by daybreak, they’ll all be down again, when we can travel straight on without being delayed by so many stoppages. I tell you, Señor Cypriano, if we start now, it’ll be only to find the old saying true, ‘More haste, worse speed.’”
He to whom this speech is addressed perceives the application of the adage, and admitting it, yields the point.
“Besides,” adds the gaucho, by way of clinching his argument, “we’ve got to spend part of the night somewhere, and have some sleep. If we keep on without that, it may end in our breaking dead down, which would be worse than being a little behind time. We all stand in need of rest now. Speaking for myself, I want it badly; and I’m sure so does Master Ludwig and you too, señorito! If we were to leave the cave, and seek for it anywhere outside, we’d find the ground soaking wet, and, like enough, every one of us get laid up with a spell of rheumatics. Here we’ll be as snug as a biscacha in its hole; and, I take it, will sleep undisturbed by the squalling of any more cats.”
As Cypriano makes no further opposition, it is decided that they remain in the cave till morning.
The little incident as above, with the conversation which accompanies it, does not take place immediately after the tiger had been disposed of; for they have eaten supper since. By good luck, some sticks were found in the cave, half-burnt faggots, the remains of a fire no doubt left by a party of Indian hunters, who had also spent a night there. With these they were enabled to boil their kettle, and make a maté of their favourite yerba tea; while the “knuckle” of mutton and some cakes of corn bread still left, needed no cooking. It is after all this was over, and they had been some time conversing on the many strange incidents which occurred to them throughout the day, that they became aware of the flood having fallen, and escape from their rock-bound prison possible. Then succeeded the discussion recorded.
At its termination, as nothing more can be done, and all feeling fatigued, to go to rest is naturally the next move. Their horses have already been attended to by the removal of the riding gear, while some rough grass found growing against the cliff, near the cave’s entrance outside, has been cut and carried in to them.
A slight grooming given to the animals, and it but remains to make their own beds. This done, by simply spreading their jergas and caronillas along the flinty stalagmites, each having his own recado for a pillow. Their ponchos, long since pulled apart, and the dust cuffed out of them, are to serve for what they really are—blankets; a purpose to which at night they are put by all gauchos and most Argentinos—as much as they are used during day time for cloak or greatcoat.
Each wrapping himself up in his own, all conversation ceases, and sleep is sought with closed eyes. This night it is found by them in a succession somewhat changed. As on that preceding, Ludwig is first asleep; but almost instantly after it is Gaspar, not Cypriano, who surrenders to the drowsy god; filling the hollow cavity with his snoring, loud as that often heard to proceed from the nostrils of a tapir. He well knows they are safe within that rock-bound chamber; besides that he is tired dead down with the day’s exertion; hence his so soon becoming oblivious.
Cypriano is the last to yield. But he, too, at length gives way, and all is silent within the cavern, save the “crump-crump” of the horses munching their coarse provender, with now and then a hoof striking the hard rock. But louder than all is that raucous reverberation sent up by the slumbering gaucho.
While the pursuing party is peacefully reposing upon the stalagmites of the cavern, that pursued reaches its destination—the “Sacred town” of the Tovas.
The tolderia, so named, stands upon a level plain, near the shore of a large and beautiful lake, whose numerous low-lying islets, covered with a thick growth of the moriché, have the appearance of palm-groves growing direct out of the water itself.
A belt of the same stately trees borders the lake all around, broken here and there by projecting headlands; while away over the adjacent campo, on the higher and drier ground, are seen palms of other and different species, both fan-leaved and pinnate, growing in copses or larger “montes,” with evergreen shrubs and trees of deciduous foliage interspersed.
At some three or four hundred yards from the lake’s edge, a high hill rises abruptly above the plain—the only elevation within many miles. Thus isolated, it is visible from afar, and forms a conspicuous feature of the landscape; all the more remarkable on account of its singular shape, which is the frustrum of a cone. Though its sides are of steep pitch, they are thickly wooded to the summit; trees of large size standing upon its table-like top. But something more than trees stand there; the scaffolds upon which are laid the bodies of the Tovas dead; hundreds of which may be seen in all stages of decay, or shrivelled and desiccated by the dry winds and sun of the Chaco till they resemble Egyptian mummies. For it is the “Cemetery Hill,” a spot hallowed in the hearts of these Indians, and so giving the title of “Sacred” to this particular place, as the town adjacent to it. The latter is situated just under the hill, between its base and the shore of the lake. No grand city, as might be supposed from such a high-sounding name, but simply a collection of palm and bamboo toldos, or huts, scattered about without any design or order; each owner having been left free to select the site of his frail tenement, since among the Tovas municipal regulations are of the simplest and most primitive character. True, some dwellings, grander and more pretentious than the common, are grouped around an open space; in the centre of which is one much larger than any of the others, its dimensions equalling a dozen of them. This is not a dwelling, however, but the Malocca, or House of Parliament. Perhaps, with greater propriety, it might be called “Congress Chamber,” since, as already hinted at, the polity of the Tovas tribe is rather republican than monarchical.
Strange, as sad, that in this republic of redskins, and so-called savages, should exist the same political contradiction as among some other republican communities, having the name of civilised. For although themselves individually free, the Tovas Indians do not believe in the doctrine that all men should be so; or, at all events, they do not act up to it. Instead, their practice is the very opposite, as shown by their keeping numbers of slaves. Of these they have hundreds, most of them being Indians of other tribes, their enemies, whom they have made captive in battle. But to the Tovas master it signifies little what be the colour of his bondman’s skin, whether white or red; and many of the former, women as well as men, may be seen doing drudgery in this same Sacred town—its hewers of wood and drawers of water. These are also captives, the spoil of predatory incursions across the Salado into the settlements of Santiago, Salto, and Tucuman.
Most of these slaves, employed in the care of cattle, live apart from their masters, in a sort of suburb, where the dwellings are of a less permanent character than the ordinary toldos, besides being differently constructed. They more resemble the tents, or wigwams, of the North-American Indians; being simply a number of poles set in a circle, and tied together at the tops; the hides of horses covering them, instead of the buffalo skins which serve a similar purpose on the northern prairies.
It may seem strange that captives with white skins, thus left unguarded, do not make their escape. But no; those so kept do not even seek or desire it. Long in captivity, they have become “Indianised,” lost all aspirations for liberty, and grown contented with their lot; for the Tovas are not hard taskmasters.
On the night of that same day, when the tormenta overtook them, Aguara and his party approach the Sacred town, which is about twenty miles from the edge of the salitral, where the trail parts from the latter, going westward. The plain between is no more of saline or sterile character; but, as on the other side, showing a luxuriant vegetation, with the same picturesque disposal of palm-groves and other tropical trees.
The hour is late—nigh to midnight—as the captive train passes under the shadow of the Cemetery Hill, making round to where the tolderia stands; for both lake and town are on the west side of the hill.
Well may the young cacique feel something of fear, his face showing it, as he glances up to that elevated spot where he so late laid the corpse of his father. Were that father living, he, the son, would not be passing there with the daughter of Ludwig Halberger as his captive. Even as it is, he can fancy the spirit of the deceased cacique hovering over the hill, and looking frowningly, reproachfully, down upon him!
As if to escape from such imaginary frowns, he gives the lash to his horse; and setting the animal into a gallop, rides on alone—having first placed the captive under the charge of one of his followers.
On reaching the tolderia, however, he does not go direct to his own dwelling, which is the largest of those adjacent to the malocca. Nor yet enters he among the toldos; but, instead, makes a wide circuit around them, taking care not to awake those sleeping within. The place for which he is making is a sort of half hut, half cave, close in to the base of the hill, with trees overshadowing, and a rocky background of cliff.
Arrived in front of this solitary dwelling, he dismounts, and, drawing aside the horse’s skin which serves as a swing door, calls out:—
“Shebotha!”
Presently a woman appears in the opening—if woman she could be called. For it is a hag of most repulsive appearance; her face half hidden by a tangle of long hair, black, despite old age indicated by a skin shrivelled and wrinkled as that of a chameleon. Add to this a pair of dark grey eyes, deep sunken in their sockets, for all gleaming brilliantly, and you have the countenance of Shebotha—sorceress of the Tovas tribe—one of cast as sinister as ever presented itself in a doorway.
She speaks not a word in answer to the friendly salutation of the cacique; but stands silent in bent, obeisant attitude, with her skinny arms crossed over her breast, as it waiting to hear what he would further say. His words are by way of command:
“Shebotha! I’ve brought back with me a captive—a young girl of the palefaces. You must take charge of her, and keep her here in your hut. She’s not yet come up, but will presently. So get things ready to receive her.”
Shebotha but bends lower, with an inclination of the head, to imply that his instructions will be attended to. Then he adds—
“No one must see, or converse with her; at least, not for a time. And you mustn’t admit any one inside your toldo, except the witless white creature, your slave. About him it don’t signify. But keep out all others, as I know you can. You understand me, Shebotha?”
She makes answer in the affirmative, but, as before, only by a nod.
“Enough!” is the young chief’s satisfied rejoinder, as he vaults back upon his horse, and rides off to meet the captive train, which he knows must be now near.
That night, as for other nights and days succeeding, Francesca Halberger has this horrid hag for a hostess, or rather the keeper of her prison; since the unhappy girl is in reality kept and guarded as a prisoner.