Gaspar the Gaucho: A Story of the Gran Chaco

Quieting the animal with some whispered words, he places himself behind a thick bush, and there stays all of a tremble, the only thing stedfast about him being his gaze, fixed upon the forms of the departing travellers. So carefully does he screen himself, that from the front nothing is visible to indicate the presence of anyone there, save the point of a spear, with dry blood upon the blade, projecting above the bushes, and just touching the fronds of a palm-tree, its ensanguined hue in vivid contrast with the green of the leaves, as guilt and death in the midst of innocence and life!

Not till they have passed almost out of his sight, their heads gradually going down behind the culms of the tall pampas grass, does Rufino Valdez breathe freely. Then his nerves becoming braced by the anger which burns within – a fierce rage, from the old hatred of jealousy, interrupted by this new and bitter disappointment, the thwarting of a scheme, so far successful, but still only half accomplished – he gives utterance to a string of blasphemous anathemas, with threats, in correspondence.

“Carajo!” he cries, winding up with the mildest of his profane exclamations. “Ride on, señores, and get soon home! While there, be happy as you best may. Ha, ha! there won’t be much merriment in that nest now, with the young chick out of it – pet bird of the flock; nor long before the whole brood be called upon to forsake it. Soon as I can get to Assuncion and back with a dozen of our quarteleros, ah! won’t there be a wiping out of old scores then? If that young fool, Naraguana’s son, hadn’t shown so chicken-hearted, I might have settled them now; gone home with captives, too, instead of empty-handed. Well, it won’t be so long to wait. Let me see. Three days will take me to Assuncion – less if this animal under me wasn’t so near worn out; three more to return with the troop. Say a week in all; at the end of which, if there be a man named Caspar Mendez in the land of the living, it won’t be he whose head I see out yonder. That will be off his shoulders, or if on them only to help hold in its place the loop-end of my lazo. But I must make haste. For what if Halberger have recognised me? I don’t think he did or could; ’twas too dark. If he have, what – ay, what? Of course they’ll know that wasn’t likely to be the last of it, and that there’s something more to come. They’d be simpletons not to think so; and thinking it, still greater fools if they don’t take some steps to flee away from this new roost they’ve been perching upon. But whither can they? The young Tovas chief is compromised with them – dead declared as their enemy so long as he keeps that pretty creature captive in his toldo; and there are others of the tribe will stand by me, I know. The glass beads and other glistening baubles will secure the young, while a few golden onzas skilfully distributed will do the same for the sagamores. No fear then, no failure yet! With the Tovas on my side, there isn’t a spot in the Chaco to shelter them. So, caballeros! you can keep on. In a week from this time, I hope to hold an interview with you, less distant and more satisfactory to myself.”

After delivering this quaint rigmarole, he sits watching them till their heads finally sink below the sea of grass, the rheas feathers in Caspar’s high crowned hat being the last to disappear, as it were waving back defiance and to the death!

Soon as they are out of sight, and he no longer fears an encounter with his old enemy, Valdez turns to the consideration of some other things which have appeared strange to him. At first, why they are riding so slowly, for as long as seen they were proceeding in a walking-gait rarely witnessed upon the pampas, and never where the horseman is a gaucho; for he gallops if it were but to the stream, within a stone’s throw of his solitary cabin, to fetch a jar of water!

“Nothing in that,” he mutters, “now I come to think of it. Only natural they should be going at snail’s pace. Carrai! the wonder is the gringo being able for even that, or go at all. I thought I’d given him his quietus, for surely I sent my spear right through his ribs! It must have struck button, or buckle, or something, and glinted off. Mad fool of me, when I had him down, not to make sure of my work! Well, it’s no use blubbering about it now. Next time I’ll take better care how the thing’s done.”

After a short pause, he resumes his strain of interrogative conjecture now on another matter, which has also struck him as being strange.

“Why are they going off that way, I wonder? It isn’t their direct route homeward, surely? I don’t know the exact spot where the gringo has established himself; but didn’t Aguara say the nearest way to it is along the river’s bank, down to their old tolderia? If so, certainly they’re making a round about. Ha! I fancy I know the reason; natural, too, as the other. The Señor Ludwig must have known they were Tovas who attacked him, and under the belief that they’ve gone on to their former place of abode, dreads a second encounter with them. No wonder he should, having found them such treacherous allies – enemies instead of friends. Ha, ha, ha! won’t that puzzle him? Of course, he hasn’t yet heard of Naraguana’s death – couldn’t – they all said so. Well, it’s a bit of good luck for me their going that round. My road lies direct down the river, and now I may proceed upon it without fear of being spied by them. That would never do just yet. They shall have sight of me soon enough – sooner than they’ll like it. And this reminds me I mustn’t waste any more time here; it’s too precious. Now off, and home to El Supremo, who’ll jump with very joy at the news I have for him.”

Giving his horse a touch of the spur, he heads him along the high bank, still keeping within the skirt of timber, and riding slowly through the tangle of obstructing bushes; but at length getting out upon the old trail, where it goes down to the ford, he turns along it, in the opposite direction, towards the deserted tolderia. And now, with nothing further to obstruct him, he plies the spur vigorously, and keeps on at full gallop, not looking ahead, however, but with eyes all the while scanning the plain to his left, apprehensively, as fearing there to see a tall black hat, with a bunch of ostrich feathers floating above it.

Chapter Fourteen.

Why come they not?

A night of dread suspense has been passed at the estancia of Ludwig Halberger. No one there has thought of sleep. Even the dark-skinned domestics – faithful Guano Indians – touched with sympathy for the señora, their mistress, do not retire to rest. Instead, retainers all, outside the house as within, sit up throughout the night, taking part with her in the anxious vigil.

As the hours drag wearily along, the keener become her apprehensions; that presentiment of the morning, which during all the day has never left her, now pressing upon her spirit with the weight of woe itself. She could scarce be sadder, or surer that some terrible mischance had happened to her husband and daughter, had she seen it with her own eyes. And were both to be brought back dead, ’twould be almost what she is anticipating.

In vain her son Ludwig, an affectionate lad, essays to cheer her. Do his best to assign or invent reasons for their prolonged absence, he cannot chase the dark shadow from her brow, nor lift the load off her heart. And Cypriano, who dearly loves his aunt, has no more success. Indeed, less, since almost as much does he need cheering himself. For although Francesca’s fate is a thing of keen inquietude to the brother, it is yet of keener to the cousin. Love is the strongest of the affections.

But youth, ever hopeful, hinders them from despairing; and despite their solicitude, they find words of comfort for her who hears them without being comforted.

“Keep up heart, mother!” says Ludwig, feigning a cheerfulness he far from feels. “’Twill be all right yet, and we’ll see them home to-morrow morning – if not before. You know that father has often stayed out all night.”

“Never alone,” she despondingly answers. “Never with Francesca. Only when Gaspar was along with him.”

“Well, Gaspar’s with him now, no doubt; and that’ll make all safe. He’s sure to have found them. Don’t you think so, Cypriano?”

“Oh! yes,” mechanically rejoins the cousin, in his heart far from thinking it so, but the reverse. “Wherever they’ve gone he’ll get upon their tracks; and as Gaspar can follow tracks, be they ever so slight, he’ll have no difficulty with those of uncle’s horse.”

“He may follow them,” says the señora, heaving a sigh, “but whither will they lead him to. Alas, I fear – ”

“Have no fear, tia!” interrupts the nephew, with alacrity, an idea occurring to him. “I think I know what’s detaining them – at least, it’s very likely.”

“What?” she asks, a spark of hopefulness for an instant lighting up her saddened eyes; Ludwig, at the same time, putting the question.

“Well,” replies Cypriano, proceeding to explain, “you know how uncle takes it, when he comes across a new object of natural history, or anything in the way of a curiosity. It makes him forget everything else, and everybody too. Suppose while riding over the campo he chanced upon something of that sort, and stayed to secure it? It may have been too big to be easily brought home.”

“No, no!” murmurs the señora, the gleam of hope departing suddenly as it had sprung up. “It cannot be that.”

“But it can, and may,” persists the youth, “for there’s something I haven’t yet told you, tia– a thing which makes it more probable.”

Again she looks to him inquiringly, as does Ludwig, both listening with all ears for the answer.

“The thing I’m speaking of is an ostrich.”

“Why an ostrich? your uncle could have no curiosity about that. He sees them every day.”

“True, but it’s not every day he can catch them. And it was only yesterday I heard him tell Caspar he wanted one, a cock bird, for some purpose or other, though what, he didn’t say. Now, it’s likely, almost certain, that while on their way to the tolderia, or coming back, he has seen one, given chase to it, leaving Francesca somewhere to wait for him. Well, tia, you know what an ostrich is to chase? Now lagging along as if you could easily throw the noose round its neck, then putting on a fresh spurt – ’twould tempt any one to keep on after it. Uncle may have got tantalised in that very way, and galloped leagues upon leagues without thinking of it. To get back to Francesca, and then home, would take all the time that’s passed yet. So don’t let us despair.”

The words well meant, and not without some show of reason, fail, however, to bring conviction to the señora. Her heart is too sad, the presentiment too heavy on it, to be affected by any such sophistry. In return, she says despairingly —

“No, sobrino! that’s not it. It your uncle had gone after an ostrich, you forget that Caspar has gone after him. If he had found them, they’d all have been back before this. Ay de mi! I know they’ll never be back – never more!”

“Nay, mamma! don’t say that,” breaks in Ludwig, flinging his arms around her neck, and kissing the tears from her cheek. “What Cypriano says appears to me probable enough, and likely to be true. But if it isn’t, I think I can tell what is.”

Again the sorrowing mother looks inquiringly up; Cypriano, in turn, becoming listener.

“My idea,” pursues Ludwig, “is that they went straight on to the tolderia, and are there still – detained against their will.”

Cypriano starts, saying. “What makes you think that, cousin?”

“Because of Naraguana. You know how the old Indian’s given to drinking guarapé. Every now and then he gets upon a carousal, and keeps it up for days, sometimes weeks. And he may be at that now, which would account for none of them having been to see us lately. If that’s the reason, the silly old fellow might just take it into his head to detain father and Francesca. Not from any ill will, but only some crazy notion of his own. Now, isn’t that likely enough?”

“But Gaspar? they wouldn’t detain him. Nor would he dare stay, after what I said to him at parting.”

It is the señora who speaks, for Cypriano is now all absorbed in thoughts which fearfully afflict him.

“Gaspar couldn’t help himself, mamma, any more than father or sister. If the chief be as I’ve said – intoxicated – all the other Indians will be the same, sure enough; and Gaspar would have to stay with them, if they wished it. Now, it’s my opinion they have wished it, and are keeping all of them there for the night. No doubt, kindly entertaining them, in their own rough way, however much father and Francesca may dislike it, and Gaspar growl at it. But it’ll be all right. So cheer up, madre mia! We’ll see them home in the morning – by breakfast time, or before it.”

Alas! Ludwig’s forecast proves a failure; as his mother too surely expected it would. Morning comes, but with it no word of the missing ones. Nor is any sign seen of them by anxious eyes, that from earliest daybreak have been scanning the plain, which stretches away in front of the estancia. Nothing moves over it but the wild creatures, its denizens; while above it, on widely extended wings, soars a flock of black vultures – ill omen in that moment of doubt and fear.

And so passes the hour of breakfast, with other hours, on till it is mid-day, but still no human being appears upon the plain. ’Tis only later, when the sun began to throw elongated shadows, that one is seen there, upon horseback, and going in a gallop; but he is heading from the house, and not toward it. For the rider is Cypriano himself, who, no longer able to bear the torturing suspense, has torn himself away from aunt and cousin, to go in search of his uncle and another cousin – the last dearer than all.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Tedious Journey

It yet wants full two hours of sunset, as the gaucho and his companion come within sight of the estancia. Still, so distant, however, that the house appears not bigger than a dove-cot – a mere fleck of yellow, the colour of the caña brava, of which its walls are constructed – half hidden by the green foliage of the trees standing around it. The point from which it is viewed is on the summit of a low hill, at least a league off, and in a direct line between the house itself and the deserted Indian village. For although the returning travellers have not passed through the latter place, but, for reasons already given, intentionally avoided it, the route they had taken, now nearer home, has brought them back into that, between it and the estancia.

A slow journey they have made. It is all of eight hours since, at earliest sunrise, they rode out from among the sumac trees on the bank of the branch stream; and the distance gone over cannot be much more than twenty miles. Under ordinary circumstances the gaucho would have done it in two hours, or less.

As it is, he has had reasons for delaying, more than one. First, his desire to make the journey without being observed; and to guard against this, he has been zig-zagging a good deal, to take advantage of such cover as was offered by the palm-groves and scattered copses of quebracho.

A second cause retarding him has been the strange behaviour of his travelling companion, whose horse he has had to look after all along the way. Nothing has this rider done for himself, nor is yet doing; neither guides the horse, nor lays hand upon the bridle-rein, which, caught over the saddle-bow, swings loosely about. He does not even urge the animal on by whip or spur. And as for word, he has not spoken one all day, neither to the gaucho, nor in soliloquy to himself! Silent he is, as when halted by the edge of the sumac wood, and in exactly the same attitude; the only change observable being his hat, which is a little more slouched over his face, now quite concealing it.

But the two causes assigned are not the only ones why they have been so long in reaching the spot where they now are. There is a third influencing the gaucho. He has not wished to make better speed. Nor does he yet desire it, as is evident by his actions. For now arrived on the hill’s top, within sight of home, instead of hastening on towards it he brings his horse to a dead halt, the other, as if mechanically, stopping too. It is not that the animals are tired, and need rest. The pause is for a different purpose; of which some words spoken by the gaucho to himself, give indication. Still in the saddle, his face turned towards the distant dwelling, with eyes intently regarding it, he says: —

“Under that roof are three hearts beating anxiously now, I know. Soon to be sadder, though; possibly, one of them to break outright. Pobere señora! what will she say when she hears – when she sees this? Santissima! ’twill go wellnigh killing her, if it don’t quite!”

While speaking, he has glanced over his shoulder at the other horseman, who is half a length behind. But again facing to the house, and fixing his gaze upon it, he continues: —

“And Cypriano – poor lad! He’ll have his little heart sorely tried, too. So fond of his cousin, and no wonder, such a sweet chiquitita. That will be a house of mourning, when I get home to it!”

Once more he pauses in his muttered speech, as if to consider something. Then, looking up at the sun, proceeds:

“It’ll be full two hours yet before that sets. Withal I must wait for its setting. ’Twill never do to take him home in broad daylight. No; she mustn’t see him thus, and sha’n’t – if I can help it. I’ll stop here till it’s dark, and, meanwhile, think about the best way of breaking it to her. Carramba! that will be a scene! I could almost wish myself without eyes, rather than witness it. Ah! me! It’ll be enough painful to listen to their lamentations.”

In conformity with, the intention just declared, he turns his horse’s head towards a grand ombu– growing not far off – the same which, the day before, guided him back to his lost way – and riding on to it pulls up beneath its spreading branches. The other horse, following, stops too. But the man upon his back stays there, while the gaucho acts differently; dismounting, and attaching the bridles of both horses to a branch of the tree. Then he stretches himself along the earth, not to seek sleep or rest, but the better to give his thoughts to reflection, on that about which he has been speaking.

He has not been many minutes in his recumbent attitude before being aroused from it. With his ears so close to the ground, sounds are carried to him from afar, and one now reaching them causes him first to start into a sitting posture, and then stand upon his feet. It is but the trample of a horse, and looking in the direction whence it comes sees the animal itself, and its rider soon is seen, recognising both.

“Cypriano!” he mechanically exclaims, adding, “Pobrecito! He’s been impatient; anxious; too much to stay for my return, and now’s coming after.”

It is Cypriano, approaching from the direction of the house whence he has but lately started, and at great speed, urged on by the anxiety which oppresses him. But he is not heading for the ombu, instead, along the more direct path to the Indian town, which would take him past the tree at some three hundred yards’ distance.

He does not pass it, nevertheless. Before he has got half-way up the hill, Caspar, taking the bridle of his own horse from the branch, leaps into the saddle, and gallops down to meet him. The gaucho has a reason for not hailing him at a distance, or calling him to come under the ombu, till he first held speech with him.

“Caspar!” shouts the youth excitedly, soon as he catches sight of the other coming towards him. “What news? Oh? you’ve not found them! I see you haven’t!”

“Calm yourself, young master!” rejoins the gaucho, now close up to him; “I have found them – that is, one of them.”

“Only one – which?” half distractedly interrogates the youth.

“Your uncle – but, alas – ”

“Dead – dead! I know it by the way you speak. But my cousin! Where is she? Still living? Say so, Caspar! Oh, say but that!”

“Come señorito, be brave; as I know you are. It may not be so bad for the niña, your cousin. I’ve no doubt she’s still alive, though I’ve not been successful in finding her. As for your uncle, you must prepare yourself to see something that’ll pain you. Now, promise me you’ll bear it bravely – say you will, and come along with me!”

At this Gaspar turns his horse, and heads him back for the ombu, the other silently following, stunned almost beyond the power of speech. But once under the tree, and seeing what he there sees, it returns to him. Then the gaucho is witness to an exhibition of grief and rage, both wild as ever agitated the breast of a boy.

Chapter Sixteen.

Dead!

Once more the sun is going down over the pampa, but still nothing seen upon it to cheer the eyes of the Señora Halberger, neither those first missing, nor they who went after. One after another she has seen them depart, but in vain looks for their return.

And now, as she stands with eyes wandering over that grassy wilderness, she can almost imagine it a maelstrom or some voracious monster, that swallows up all who venture upon it. As the purple of twilight assumes the darker shade of night, it seems to her as though some unearthly and invisible hand were spreading a pall over the plain to cover her dear ones, somewhere lying dead upon it.

She is in the verandah with her son, and side by side they stand gazing outward, as long as there is light for them to see. Even after darkness has descended they continue to strain their eyes mechanically, but despairingly, she more hopeless and feeling more forlorn than ever. All gone but Ludwig! for even her nephew may not return. Where Caspar, a strong man and experienced in the ways of the wilderness, has failed to find the lost ones, what chance will there be for Cypriano? More like some cruel enemy has made captives of them all, killing all, one after the other, and he, falling into the same snare, has been sacrificed as the rest!

Dark as is this hour of her apprehension, there is yet a darker one in store for her; but before it there is to be light, with joy – alas! short-lived as that bright, garish gleam of sun which often precedes the wildest burst of a storm. Just as the last ray of hope has forsaken her, a house-dog, lying outstretched by the verandah starts to its feet with a growl, and bounding off into the darkness, sets up a sonorous baying.

Both mother and son step hastily forward to the baluster rail, and resting hands on it, again strain their eyes outward, now as never before, at the same time listening as for some signal sound, on the hearing of which hung their very lives.

Soon they both hear and see what gives them gladness unspeakable, their ears first imparting it by a sound sweeter to them than any music, for it is the tread of horses’ hoofs upon the firm turf of the plain; and almost in the same instant they see the horses themselves, each with a rider upon its back.

The exclamation that leaps from the mother’s lips is the cry of a heart long held in torture suddenly released, and without staying to repeat it, she rushes out of the verandah and on across the patch of enclosed ground – not stopping till outside the palings which enclose it. Ludwig following, comes again by her side, and the two stand with eyes fixed on the approaching forms, there now so near that they are able to make out their number.

But this gives them surprise, somewhat alarming them afresh. For there are but three where there should be four.

“It must be your father and Francesca, with Caspar,” says the señora, speaking in doubt. “Cypriano has missed them all, I suppose. But he’ll come too – ”

“No, mother,” interrupts Ludwig, “Cypriano is there. I can see a white horse, that must be his.”

“Gaspar then; he it is that’s behind.”

She says this with a secret hope it may be so.

“It don’t look like as if Gaspar was behind,” returns Ludwig, hesitating in his speech, for his eyes, as his heart, tell him there is still something amiss. “Two of them,” he continues, “are men, full grown, and the third is surely Cypriano.”