Gaspar the Gaucho: A Story of the Gran Chaco

They have no time for further discussion or conjecture – no occasion for it. The three shadowy figures are now very near, and just as the foremost pulls up in front of the palings, the moon bursting forth from behind a cloud flashes her full light upon his face, and they see it is Gaspar. The figures farther off are lit up at the same time, and the señora recognises them as her husband and nephew. A quick searching glance carried behind to the croups of their horses shows her there is no one save those seated in the saddle.

“Where is Francesca?” she cries out in agonised accents. “Where is my daughter?”

No one makes answer; not any of them speaks. Gaspar, who is nearest, but hangs his head, as does his master behind him.

“What means all this?” is her next question, as she dashes past the gaucho’s horse, and on to her husband, as she goes crying out, “Where is Francesca? What have you done with my child?”

He makes no reply, nor any gesture – not even a word to acknowledge her presence! Drawing closer she clutches him by the knee, continuing her distracted interrogatories.

“Husband! why are you thus silent? Ludwig, dear Ludwig, why don’t you answer me? Ah! now I know. She is dead – dead!”

“Not she, but he,” says a voice close to her ear – that of Gaspar, who has dismounted and stepped up to her.

“He! who?”

“Alas! señora, my master, your husband.”

“O Heavens! can this be true?” as she speaks, stretching her arms up to the inanimate form, still in the saddle – for it is fast tied there – and throwing them around it; then with one hand lifting off the hat, which falls from her trembling fingers, she gazes on a ghastly face, and into eyes that return not her gaze. But for an instant, when, with a wild cry, she sinks back upon the earth, and lies silent, motionless, the moonbeams shimmering upon her cheeks, showing them white and bloodless, as if her last spark of life had departed!

Chapter Seventeen.

On the Trail

It is the day succeeding that on which the hunter-naturalist was carried home a corpse, sitting upright in his saddle. The sun has gone down over the Gran Chaco, and its vast grassy plains and green palm-groves are again under the purple of twilight. Herds of stately quazutis and troops of the pampas roebuck – beautiful creatures, spotted like fawns of the fallow-deer – move leisurely towards their watering-places, having already browsed to satiety on pastures where they are but rarely disturbed by the hunter, for here no sound of horse nor baying of molossian ever breaks the stillness of the early morn, and the only enemies they have habitually to dread are the red puma and yellow jaguar, throughout Spanish America respectively, but erroneously, named lion (leon) and tiger (tigre), from a resemblance, though a very slight one, which these, the largest of the New World’s felidae, bear to their still grander congeners of the Old.

The scene we are about to depict is upon the Pilcomayo’s bank, some twenty miles above the old tomeria of the Tovas Indians, and therefore thirty from the house of Ludwig Halberger – now his no more, but a house of mourning. The mourners, however, are not all in it, for by a camp-fire freshly kindled at the place we speak of; two of them are seen seated. One is the son of the murdered man, the other his nephew; while not far off is a third individual, who mourns almost as much as either. Need I say it is Caspar, the gaucho?

Or is it necessary to give explanation of their being thus far from home so soon after that sad event, the cause of their sorrow? No. The circumstances speak for themselves; telling than to be there on an errand connected with that same crime; in short, in pursuit of the criminals.

Who these may be they have as yet no definite knowledge. All is but blind conjectures, the only thing certain being that the double crime has been committed by Indians; for the trail which has conducted to the spot they are now on, first coming down the river’s bank to the branch stream, then over its ford and back again, could have been made only by a mounted party of red men.

But of what tribe? That is the question which puzzles them. Not the only one, however. Something besides causes them surprise, equally perplexing them. Among the other hoof-marks, they have observed some that must have been made by a horse with shoes on; and as they know the Chaco Indians never ride such, the thing strikes them as very strange. It would not so much, were the shod-tracks only traceable twice along the trail; that is, coming down the river and returning up again, for they might suppose that one of the savages was in possession of a white man’s horse, stolen from some of the settlements, a thing of no uncommon occurrence. But then they have here likewise observed a third set of these tracks, of older date, also going up, and a fourth, freshest of all, returning down again; the last on top of everything else, continuing on to the old tolderia, as they have noticed all the way since leaving it.

And in their examination of the many hoof-marks by the force of the tributary stream, up to the sumac thicket – and along the tapir path to that blood-stained spot which they have just visited – the same tracks are conspicuous amid all the others, telling that he who rode the shod horse has had a hand in the murder, and likely a leading one.

It is the gaucho who has made most of these observations, but about the deductions to be drawn from them, he is, for the time, as much at fault as either of his younger companions.

They have just arrived at their present halting-place, their first camp since leaving the estancia; from which they parted a little before mid-day: soon as the sad, funeral rites were over, and the body of the murdered man laid in its grave. This done at an early hour of the morning, for the hot climate of the Chaco calls for quick interment.

The sorrowing wife did nought to forbid their departure. She had her sorrows as a mother, too; and, instead of trying to restrain, she but urged them to take immediate action in searching for her lost child.

That Francesca is still living they all believe, and so long as there seemed a hope – even the slightest – of recovering her, the bereaved mother was willing to be left alone. Her faithful Guanos would be with her.

It needed no persuasive argument to send the searchers off. In their own minds they have enough motive for haste; and, though in each it might be different in kind, as in degree, with all it is sufficiently strong. Not one of them but is willing to risk his life in the pursuit they have entered upon; and at least one would lay it down rather than fail in finding Francesca, and restoring her to her mother.

They have followed thus far on the track of the abductors, but without any fixed or definite plan as to continuing. Indeed, there has been no time to think of one, or anything else; all hitherto acting under that impulse of anxiety for the girl’s fate which they so keenly feel. But now that the first hurried step has been taken, and they can go no further till another sun lights up the trail, calmer reflection comes, admonishing them to greater caution in their movements. For they who have so ruthlessly killed one man would as readily take other lives – their own. What they have undertaken is no mere question of skill in taking up a trail, but an enterprise full of peril; and they have need to be cautious how they proceed upon it.

They are so acting now. Their camp-fire is but a small one, just sufficient to boil a kettle of water for making the maté, and the spot where they have placed it is in a hollow, so that it may not be seen from afar. Besides, a clump of palms screens it on the western side, the direction in which the trail leads, and therefore the likeliest for them to apprehend danger.

Soon as coming to a stop, and before kindling the fire Gaspar has gone all around, and made a thorough survey of the situation. Then, satisfied it is a safe one, he undertakes the picketing of their horses, directing the others to set light to the faggots; which they have done, and seated themselves beside.

Chapter Eighteen.

Who rode the Shod Horse?

While waiting for the gaucho to rejoin them by the fire the two youths are not silent, but converse upon the event which saddens and still mystifies them. For up till this moment they have not seen anything, nor can they think of aught to account for the calamity which has befallen them – the double crime that has been committed. No more can they conceive who have been the perpetrators; though Cypriano all along has had his suspicions. And now for the first time he communicates them to his cousin, saying —

“It’s been the work of Tovas Indians.”

“Impossible, Cypriano!” exclaims Ludwig in surprise. “Why should they murder my poor father? What motive could they have had for it?”

“Motive enough; at least one of them had.”

“One! who mean you?”

“Aguara.”

“Aguara! But why he of all the others? And for what?”

“For what? Simply to get possession of your sister.”

Ludwig starts, showing greater astonishment than ever.

“Cypriano!” he exclaims; “what do you mean?”

“Just what I’ve said, cousin. You’re perhaps not aware of what I’ve myself known for long; that the chief’s son has been fixing his eyes on Francesca.”

“The scoundrel!” cries Ludwig, with increasing indignation, for the first time apprised of the fact thus made known to him. Unobservant of such things generally, it had never occurred to him to reflect on what had long been patent to the jealous eyes of Cypriano. Besides, the thing seemed so absurd, even preposterous – a red-skinned savage presuming to look upon his sister in the light of a sweetheart, daring to love her – that the son of the Prussian naturalist, with all the prejudices of race, could not be otherwise than incredulous of it.

“Are you sure of that?” he questions, still doubting. “Sure of what you’ve said, Cypriano?”

“Quite sure,” is the confident rejoinder; “more than once I’ve observed Aguara’s free behaviour towards my cousin; and once would have thrashed the impudent redskin, but for uncle interfering. He was afraid it might get us into trouble with Naraguana.”

“But did father himself know of it? I mean about Aguara and Francesca?”

“No. I rather think not. And I disliked telling him.”

All this is new light to Ludwig, and turns his thoughts into the same channel of suspicion where those of Cypriano have been already running. Still, whatever he may think of Naraguana’s son, he cannot bring himself to believe that Naraguana has been guilty. His father’s friend, and hitherto their protector!

“It cannot be!” he exclaims; “surely it cannot be!”

“It may be for all that, and in my opinion is. Ah! cousin, there’s no telling how an Indian will act. I never knew one who didn’t turn treacherous when it served his purpose. Whether the old chief has been so or not, I’m quite sure his son has. Take my word for it, Ludwig, it’s the Tovas Indians who’ve done this deed, and it will be with them we’ll have to deal.”

“But whither can they have gone? and why went they off so suddenly and secretly, without letting father or any of us know. All that certainly seems strange.”

“Not so strange when we think of what’s happened since. My idea is, it’s been all a planned thing. Aguara got his father to agree to his carrying off Francesca; and the old chief, controlled by the young one, let him take his way. Fearing to face uncle he first went off, taking the whole tribe along; and they’re now, no doubt, residing in some distant part of the Chaco, where they suppose we’ll never go after them. But Francesca will be there too; and we must follow and find her – ay, if we have to lay down our lives when she’s found. Shall we not, cousin?”

“Yes; shall and will!” is Ludwig’s rejoinder in a tone of determination; their dialogue getting interrupted by Gaspar coming back to the camp-fire, and saying —

“Now, señoritos! It’s high time we had some supper.”

On making this announcement the gaucho himself sets about preparing their evening repast. It requires no great effort of culinary skill; since the more substantial portion of it has been already cooked, and is now presented in the shape of a cold shoulder of mutton, with a cake of corn bread, extracted from a pair of alparejas, or saddle-bags. In the Chaco there are sheep – the Indians themselves breeding them – while since settling there the hunter-naturalist had not neglected either pastoral or agricultural pursuits. Hence the meal from which came that cake of maize-bread.

With these two pièces de résistance nothing remains but to make a cup of “Paraguay tea,” for which Gaspar has provided all the materials, viz., an iron kettle for boiling water, cups of cocoa-nut shell termed matés– for this is the name of the vessel, not the beverage – and certain tubes, the bombillas, to serve as spoons; the Paraguayan tea being imbibed, not in the ordinary way, but sucked up through these bombillas. All the above implements, with a little sugar for sweetening; and, lastly, the yerba itself, has the thoughtful gaucho brought along. No milk, however; the lacteal fluid not being deemed a necessary ingredient in the cup which cheers the Paraguayan people, without intoxicating them.

Gaspar – as all gauchos, skilled in the concoction of it – in a short time has the three matés brimful of the brew. Then the bombillas are inserted, and the process of sucking commences; suspended only at intervals while the more substantial mutton and maize-bread are being masticated.

Meanwhile, as a measure of security, the camp-fire has been extinguished, though they still keep their places around its embers. And while eating, converse; Cypriano imparting to Gaspar the suspicions he has already communicated to his cousin.

It is no new idea to the gaucho; instead, the very one his own thoughts have been dwelling upon. For he, too, had long observed the behaviour of the young Tovas chief towards the daughter of his dueño. And what has now occurred seems to coincide with that – all except the supposed treachery of Naraguana. A good judge of character, as most gauchos are, Gaspar cannot think of the aged cacique having turned traitor. Still, as Ludwig, he is at a loss what to think. For why should the Tovas chief have made that abrupt departure from his late abiding place? The reason assigned by Cypriano is not, to his view, satisfactory; though he cannot imagine any other. So, they finish their suppers and retire to rest, without having arrived at any certain conclusion, one way or the other.

With heads rested upon their saddles, and their ponchos wrapped around them, they seek sleep, Ludwig first finding it; next Cypriano, though he lies long awake – kept so by torturing thoughts. But tired nature at length overpowers him, and he too sinks into slumber.

The gaucho alone surrenders not to the drowsy god; but, repelling his attacks, still lies reflecting. Thus run his reflections – as will be seen, touching near the truth:

“Carramba! I can think of but one man in all the world who had an interest in the death of my dear master. One there was who’d have given a good deal to see him dead – that’s El Supremo. No doubt he searched high and low for us, after we gave him the slip. But then, two years gone by since! One would think it enough to have made him almost forget us. Forgive, no! that wouldn’t be Señor José Francia. He never forgives. Nor is it likely he has forgotten, either, what the dueño did. Crossing him in his vile purpose, was just the sort of thing to stick in his crop for the remainder of his life; and I shouldn’t wonder if it’s his hand has been here. Odd, those tracks of a shod horse; four times back and forward! And the last of them, by their look, must have been made as late as yesterday – some time in the early morning, I should say. Beyond the old tolderia, downward, they’ve gone. I wish I’d turned a bit that way as we came up, so as to be sure of it. Well, I’ll find that out, when we get back from this pursuit; which I very much fear will prove a wild goose chase.”

For a time he lies without stirring, or moving a muscle, on his back, with eyes seemingly fixed upon the stars, like an ancient astrologer in the act of consulting them for the solution of some deep mystery hidden from mortal ken. Then, as if having just solved it, he gives a sudden start, exclaiming:

“Sangre de Crista! that’s the explanation of all, the whole affair; murder, abduction, everything.”

His words, though only muttered, awaken Cypriano, still only half-asleep.

“What is it, Gaspar?” questions the youth.

“Oh, nothing, señorito; only a mosquito that took a fancy to stick its bill into the bridge of my nose. But I’ve given Master Zancudo his quietus; and he won’t trouble me again.”

Though the gaucho thinks he has at last got the clue to what has been mystifying them, like all skilled tacticians he intends for a time keeping it to himself. So, saying no more, he leaves his young companion to return to his slumbers: which the latter soon does. Himself now more widely awake than ever, he follows up the train of thought Cypriano had interrupted.

“It’s clear that Francia has at length found out our whereabouts. I wonder he didn’t do so long ago; and have often warned the dueño of the danger we were in. Of course, Naraguana kept him constantly assured; and with war to the knife between the Tovas and Paraguayans, no wonder my poor master was too careless and confident. But something has happened lately to affect their relations. The Indians moving so mysteriously away from their old place shows it. And these shod-tracks tell, almost for sure, that some white man has been on a visit to them, wherever they are now. Just as sure about this white man being an emissary from El Supremo. And who would his emissary be? Who sent on such an errand so likely as him?”

The emphasis on the “him” points to some one not yet mentioned, but whom the gaucho has in his mind. Soon, however, he gives the name, saying:

“The scoundrel who bestrode that horse – and a thorough scoundrel too – is Rufino Valdez. Assassin, besides! It’s he who has murdered my master. I’d lay my life on it.”

After arriving at this conclusion, he adds:

“What a pity I didn’t think of this before! If but yesterday morning! He must have passed along the trail going back, and alone? Ah! the chance I’ve let escape me! Such an opportunity for settling old scores with Señor Rufino! Well, he and I may meet yet; and if we do, one of us will have to stay on the spot where that encounter takes place, or be carried from it feet foremost. I think I know which would go that way, and which the other.”

Thus predicating, the gaucho pulls his poncho around his shoulders, and composes himself for sleep; though it is some time before he succeeds in procuring it.

But Morpheus coming to his aid, proves too many for the passions which agitate him; and he at length sinks into a profound slumber, not broken till the curassows send up their shrill cries – as the crowing of Chanticleer – to tell that another day is dawning upon the Chaco.

Chapter Nineteen.

The “Lost Ball.”

Travellers on such an errand as that which is carrying the gaucho and his youthful companions across the Chaco, do not lie abed late; and they are up and stirring as the first streak of blue-grey light shows itself above the horizon.

Again a tiny fire is kindled; the kettle hung over it; and the matés, with the bombillas, called into requisition.

The breakfast is just as was their supper – cold mutton, corn bread, and yerba tea.

By the time they have despatched it, which they do in all haste, it is clear enough to permit of their taking up the trail they have been following. So, saddling their horses, they return to, and proceed along it.

As hitherto, it continues up the bank of the Pilcomayo, and at intervals they observe the tracks of Francesca’s pony, where they have not been trampled out by the other horses behind. And, as on the preceding day, they see the hoof-marks of the shod animal, both going and returning – the return track evidently the more recently made. They notice them, however, only up to a certain point – about twenty miles beyond the crossing-place of that tributary stream, now so full of sad interest to them. Here, in a grove of algarobias, they come upon the spot where those they are in pursuit of must have made their night bivouac; this told by some fragments of food lying scattered around, and the grass burnt in two places – large circular discs where their camp-fires had been kindled. The fires are out, and the ashes cold now; for that must have been two nights before.

Dismounting, they too make halt by the algarobia grove – partly to breathe their horses, which have been all the morning kept at top speed, through their anxiety to overtake the Indians – but more for the sake of giving examination to the abandoned camp, in the hope that something left there may lead to further elucidation of the crime and its causes; possibly enable them to determine, beyond doubt, who have been its perpetrators.

At first nothing is found to give them the slightest clue; only the ashes and half-burned faggots of the fires, with some bits of sipos– which have been cut from creeping plants entwining the trees overhead – the corresponding pieces, in all likelihood, having been used as rope tackle for some purpose the gaucho cannot guess. These, and the fragments of food already referred to, with some bones of birds clean picked, and the shells of a half-score ostrich eggs, are all the débris they can discover.

But none of these items give any indication as to who made bivouac there; beyond the fact, already understood and unquestioned, that they were Indians, with the further certainty of their having stayed on the spot over-night; this shown by the grass pressed down where their bodies had lain astretch; as also the circular patches browsed bare by their horses, around the picket pins which had held them.

Indians certainly; but of what tribe there is nothing on that spot to tell – neither sign nor token.

So concluding, Cypriano and Ludwig have climbed back into their saddles – the former terribly impatient to proceed – but Gaspar still stays afoot, holding his horse by the bridle at long reach, and leading the animal about from place to place, as if not yet satisfied with the search they have made. For there are spots where the grass is long, and the ground rough, overgrown also with weeds and bushes. Possibly among these he may yet discover something.

And something he does discover – a globe-shaped object lying half-hid among the weeds, about the size and colour of a cricket ball. This to you, young reader; for Gaspar knows nothing of your national game. But he knows everything about balls of another kind – the bolas– that weapon, without which a South American gaucho would feel as a crusader of the olden time lacking half his armour.

And it is a bola that lies before him; though one of a peculiar kind, as he sees after stooping and taking it up. A round stone covered with cow’s skin; this stretched and sewed over it tight as that on a tennis ball.

But to the bola there is no cord attached, nor mark of where one has ever been. For there never has been such, as Gaspar at a glance perceives. Well knows the gaucho that the ball he holds in his hand has not been one of a pair strung together – as with the ordinary bolas– nor of three in like manner united, as is sometimes the case; but a bola, for still it is a bola, of a sort different from either, both in its make and the mode of using it, as also the effect it is designed to produce.

“What is it, Gaspar?” simultaneously interrogate the two, as they see him so closely examining the thing he has picked up. At the same time they turn their horses’ heads towards him.

“Una bola perdida.”

“Ah! a ball the Indians have left behind – lost, you mean.”

“No, señoritos; I don’t mean that, exactly. Of course, the redskins have left it behind, and so lost it. But that isn’t the reason of my calling it a bola perdida.”