Gaspar the Gaucho: A Story of the Gran Chaco

“Why, then, Caspar?” asks Ludwig, with the hereditary instincts of the savant, like his father, curious about all such things. “Why do you call it a lost ball?”

“Because that’s the name we gauchos give it, and the name by which it is known among those who make use of it – these Chaco Indians.”

“And pray, what do they use it for? I never heard of the thing. What is its purpose?”

“One for which, I hope, neither it nor any of its sort will ever be employed upon us. The Virgin forbid! For it is no child’s toy, I can assure you, señoritos; but a most murderous weapon. I’ve witnessed its effects more than once – seen it flung full thirty yards, and hit a spot not bigger than the breadth of my hand; the head of a horse, crushing in the animal’s skull as if done by a club of quebracha. Heaven protect me, and you too, muchachos, from ever getting struck by a bola perdida!”

“But why a lost ball?” asks Ludwig, with curiosity still unsatisfied.

“Oh! that’s plain enough,” answers the gaucho. “As you see, when once launched there’s no knowing where it may roll to; and often gets lost in the long grass or among bushes; unlike the ordinary bolas, which stick to the thing aimed at – that is, if thrown as they should be.”

“What do you make of its being found here?” interrogates Cypriano, more interested about the ball in a sense different from the curiosity felt by his cousin.

“Much,” answers Caspar, looking grave, but without offering explanation; for he seems busied with some calculation, or conjecture.

“Indeed!” simultaneously exclaim the others, with interest rekindled, Cypriano regarding him with earnest glance.

“Yes, indeed, young masters,” proceeds the gaucho. “The thing I now hold in my hand has once, and not very long ago, been in the hands of a Tovas Indian!”

“A Tovas!” exclaims Cypriano, excitedly. “What reason have you for thinking so?”

“The best of all reasons. Because, so far as is known to me, no other Chaco Indians but they use the bola perdida. That ball has been handled, mislaid, and left here behind by a Tovas traitor. You are right, señorito,” he adds, speaking to Cypriano. “Whoever may have murdered my poor master, your uncle, Aguara is he who has carried off your cousin.”

“Let us on!” cries Cypriano, without another word. “O, Ludwig!” he adds, “we mustn’t lose a moment, nor make the least delay. Think of dear Francesca in the power of that savage beast. What may he not do with her?”

Ludwig needs no such urging to lead him on. His heart of brother is boiling with rage, as that of son almost broken by grief; and away ride they along the trail, with more haste and greater earnestness than ever.

Chapter Twenty.

Obstructed by a “Biscachera.”

In their fresh “spurt,” the trackers had not proceeded very far when compelled to slacken speed, and finally come to a dead stop. This from something seen before them upon the plain which threatens to bar their further progress – at least in the course they are pursuing.

The thing thus obstructing causes them neither surprise nor alarm, only annoyance; for it is one with which they all are familiar – a biscachera, or warren of biscachas.

It is scarce possible to travel twenty miles across the plains bordering the La Plata or Parana, without coming upon the burrows of this singular rodent; a prominent and ever-recurring feature in the scenery. There the biscacha, or viscacha– as it is indifferently spelt – plays pretty much the same part as the rabbit in our northern lands. It is, however, a much larger animal, and of a quite different species or genus – the lagostoinus trichodactylus. In shape of head, body, and other respects, it more resembles a gigantic rat; and, like the latter, it has a long tapering tail, which strengthens the resemblance. But, unlike either rabbit or rat, its hind feet are furnished with but three toes; hence its specific name, trichodactylus. The same scarcity of toes is a characteristic of the agoutis, capivaras, and so called “Guinea pigs,” all of which are cousins-german of the biscacha.

The latter makes its burrows very much in the same manner as the North-American marmot (Arctomys Ludoviciana), better known by the name of “prairie dog;” only that the subterranean dwellings of the biscacha are larger, from the needs of a bigger-bodied animal. But, strange to say, in these of the pampa there exists the same queer companionship as in those of the prairie – a bird associating with the quadruped – a species of owl, the Athene cunicularia. This shares occupation with the biscacha, as does the other, an allied species, with the prairie dog. Whether the bird be a welcome recipient of the beast’s hospitality, or an intruder upon it, is a question still undetermined; but the latter seems the more probable, since, in the stomachs of owls of the northern species, are frequently found prairie dog “pups;” a fact which seems to show anything but amicable relations between these creatures so oddly consorting.

There is yet another member of these communities, apparently quite as much out of place – a reptile; for snakes also make their home in the holes both of biscacha and prairie dog. And in both cases the reptile intruder is a rattlesnake, though the species is different. In these, no doubt, the owls find their staple of food.

Perhaps the most singular habit of the biscacha is its collecting every loose article which chances to be lying near, and dragging all up to its burrow; by the mouth of which it forms a heap, often as large as the half of a cart-load dumped carelessly down. No matter what the thing be – stick, stone, root of thistle, lump of indurated clay, bone, ball of dry dung – all seem equally suitable for these miscellaneous accumulations. Nothing can be dropped in the neighbourhood of a biscacha hole but is soon borne off, and added to its collection of bric-à-brac. Even a watch which had slipped from the fob of a traveller – as recorded by the naturalist. Darwin – was found forming part of one; the owner, acquainted with the habits of the animal, on missing the watch, having returned upon his route, and searched every biscacha mound along it, confident that in some one of them he would find the missing article – as he did.

The districts frequented by these three-toed creatures, and which seem most suitable to their habits, are those tracts of campo where the soil is a heavy loam or clay, and the vegetation luxuriant. Its congener, the agouti, affects the arid sterile plains of Patagonia, while the biscacha is most met with on the fertile pampas further north; more especially along the borders of those far-famed thickets of tall thistles – forests they might almost be called – upon the roots of which it is said to feed. They also make their burrows near the cardonales, tracts overgrown by the cardoon; also a species of large malvaceous plant, though quite different from the pampas thistles.

Another singular fact bearing upon the habits of the biscacha may here deserve mention. These animals are not found in the Banda Oriental, as the country lying east of the Uruguay river is called; and yet in this district exist conditions of soil, climate, and vegetation precisely similar to those on its western side. The Uruguay river seems to have formed a bar to their migration eastward; a circumstance all the more remarkable, since they have passed over the Parana, a much broader stream, and are common throughout the province of Entre Rios, as it name imports, lying between the two.

Nothing of all this occupies the thoughts of the three trackers, as they approach the particular biscachera which has presented itself to their view, athwart their path. Of such things they neither think, speak, nor care. Instead, they are but dissatisfied to see it there; knowing it will give them some trouble to get to the other side of it, besides greatly retarding their progress. If they ride right across it at all, they must needs go at a snail’s pace, and with the utmost circumspection. A single false step made by any of their horses might be the dislocation of a joint, or the breaking of a leg. On the pampa such incidents are far from rare; for the burrows of the biscachas are carried like galleries underground, and therefore dangerous to any heavy quadruped so unfortunate as to sink through the surface turf. In short, to ride across a biscachera would be on a par with passing on horseback through a rabbit warren.

“Caspita!” is the vexed exclamation of the gaucho, as he reins up in front of the obstruction, with other angry words appended, on seeing that it extends right and left far as the verge of vision, while forward it appears to have a breadth of at least half a league.

“We can’t gallop across that,” he adds, “nor yet go at even a decent walk. We must crawl for it, muchachos, or ride all the way round. And there’s no knowing how far round the thing might force us; leagues likely. It looks the biggest biscachera I ever set eyes on. Carra-i-i!”

The final ejaculation is drawled out with a prolonged and bitter emphasis, as he again glances right and left, but sees no end either way.

“Ill luck it is,” he continues, after completing his reconnaissance. “Satan’s own luck our coming upon this. A whole country covered with traps! Well, it won’t help us any making a mouth about it; and I think our best way will be to strike straight across.”

“I think so too,” says Cypriano, impatient to proceed.

“Let us on into it, then. But, hijos mios; have a care how you go. Look well to the ground before you, and keep your horses as far from the holes as you can. Where there’s two near together steer midways between, giving both the widest berth possible. Every one of them’s a dangerous pitfall. Caspita! what am I prattling about? Let me give you the lead, and you ride after, track for track.”

So saying, he heads his horse in among the rubbish heaps, each with its hole yawning adjacent: the others, as admonished, close following, and keeping in his tracks.

They move onward at a creeping pace, every now and then forced to advance circuitously, but taking no heed of the creatures upon whose domain they have so unceremoniously intruded. In truth, they have no thought about these, nor eyes for them. Enough if they can avoid intrusion into their dwellings by a short cut downwards.

Nor do the biscachas seem at all alarmed at the sight of such formidable invaders. They are anything but shy creatures; instead, far more given to curiosity; so much that they will sit squatted on their hams, in an upright attitude, watching the traveller as he passes within less than a score yards of them, the expression on their faces being that of grave contemplation. Only, if he draw too familiarly near, and they imagine him an enemy, there is a scamper off, their short fore-legs giving them a gait also heightening their resemblance to rats.

As a matter of course, such confidence makes them an easy prey to the biscacha catcher; for there are men who follow taking them as a profession. Their flesh is sweet and good to eat, while their skins are a marketable commodity; of late years forming an article of export to England, and other European countries.

Heeding neither the quadrupeds, nor the birds, their fellow-tenants of the burrow – the latter perched upon the summits of the mounds, and one after another flying off with a defiant screech as the horsemen drew near – these, after an hour spent in a slow but diligent advance, at length, and without accident, ride clear of the biscachera, and out upon the smooth open plain beyond it.

Soon as feeling themselves on firm ground, every spur of the party is plied; and they go off at a tearing pace, to make up for the lost time.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Shoulder out of Joint

When Gaspar, on first sighting the biscachera, poured forth vials of wrath upon it, he little dreamt that another burrow of similar kind, and almost at the very same hour, was doing him a service by causing not only obstruction, but serious damage to the man he regards as his greatest enemy.

This second warren lay at least a hundred miles from the one they have succeeded in crossing, in a direction due east from the latter, and on the straight route for the city of Assuncion.

Let us throw aside circumlocution, and at once give account of the incident.

On this same day, and, as already said, almost the same hour, when the trackers are brought up by the biscachera, a single horseman is seen with head turned towards the Paraguay, and making as if to reach this river; from which he is distant some eighteen or twenty miles. He rides at a rapid rate; and that he has been doing so for a long continuance of time, can be told by the lagging gait of his horse, and the sweat saturating the animal’s coat from neck to croup. For all, he slackens not the pace; instead, seems anxious to increase it, every now and then digging his spurs deep, and by strokes of a spear shaft he carries in his hands, urging his roadster onward. Anyone witness to his acting in this apparently frantic fashion, would suppose him either demented, or fleeing from pursuers who seek nothing less than his life. But as the plain over which he rides is smooth, level, and treeless for long leagues to his rear as also to right and left, and no pursuer nor aught of living thing visible upon it, the latter, at least, cannot be the case. And for the former, a glance at the man’s face tells that neither is insanity the cause of his cruel behaviour to his horse. Rufino Valdez – for he is the hastening horseman – if bad, is by no means mad.

Superfluous to say, what the errand pressing him to such speed. In soliloquy he has himself declared it: hastening to communicate news which he knows will be welcome to the Paraguayan tyrant, and afterwards return to Halberger’s estancia with a party of those hireling soldiers – quaintly termed cuarteleros from their living in barracks, or cuartels.

With this sinister purpose in view, and the expectation of a rich reward, the vaqueano has given his roadster but little rest since parting from the Tovas’ camp; and the animal is now nigh broken down. Little recks its rider. Unlike a true gaucho, he cares not what mischance may befall his steed, so long as it serves his present necessity. If it but carry him to the Paraguay, it may drop down dead on the river’s bank, for aught he will want, or think of it afterwards.

Thus free from solicitude about his dumb companion, he spurs and flogs the poor creature to the best speed it is able to make. Not much this; for every now and then it totters in its steps, and threatens going to grass, in a way different from what it might wish.

“About twenty miles,” the vaqueano mutters to himself, with a glance, cast inquiringly ahead. “It can’t be more than that to the river itself. Question is, whether I can make it anywheres near Assuncion. I’m not sure about this trail; evidently only a cattle run. It may lead me too much above or below. In any case,” he adds, “I must bring out near one of the guardias, so thick along the bank, and the soldiers of the post will ferry me across. From there I’ll have a good road to the town.”

So consoling himself, he keeps on; no longer paying much attention to the doubtful cattle track, but rather taking guidance from the sun. This going down is directly behind his back, and so tells him the due course east, as well as west; for it is eastward he wishes to go. Now, near the horizon, it casts an elongated shadow of himself and his animal, far to the front; and after this he rides, as though following in the footsteps of some giant on horseback!

The sun soon after setting, the shadow changes, veering round to his rear. But it is now made by the moon, which is also low in the sky; only before his face, instead of behind his back. For it would be the season of harvest – were such known in the Chaco – and the moon is at her full, lighting up the campo with a clearness unknown to northern lands.

Were it otherwise, Rufino Valdez might have halted here, and been forced to stay in the Chaco for another night. But tempted by the bright moonlight, and the thought of his journey so near an end, he resolves differently; and once more pricking his tired, steed with spurs long since blood-clotted, he again forces it into a gallop.

But the pace is only for a short while sustained. Before going much further he feels his horse floundering between his legs; while a glance to the ground shows him he is riding through a biscachera!

Absorbed in thought – perhaps perfecting some wicked scheme – he had not noticed the burrow till now. Now he sees it – holes and heaps all around him – at the same time hearing the screeches of the owls, as the frightened birds fly up out of his path.

He is about to draw bridle, when the reins are suddenly jerked from his grasp – by his horse, which has gone headlong to the ground! At the same instant he hears a sound, like the cracking of a dead stick snapped crosswise. It is not that, but the shank of his horse, broken above the pastern joint! It is the last sound he hears then, or for some time after; he himself sustaining damage, though of a different kind – the dislocation of a shoulder-blade – that of the arm already injured – with a shock which deprives him of his senses.

Long lies he upon that moonlit plain, neither hearing the cries of the night birds nor seeing the great ratlike quadrupeds that, in their curiosity, come crowding close to, and go running around him!

And though consciousness at length returns, he remains in that same place till morning’s light – and for the whole of another day and night – leaving the spot, and upon it his broken-legged horse, himself to limp slowly away, leaning upon his guilty spear, as one wounded on a battle-field, but one who has been fighting for a bad cause.

He reaches Assuncion – though not till the third day after – and there gets his broken bones set. But for Gaspar Mendez, there may have been luck in that shoulder-blade being put out of joint.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Barometer-Tree

After passing the biscachera, the trackers have not proceeded far, when Caspar again reins up with eyes lowered to the ground. The others seeing this, also bring their horses to a stand; then watch the gaucho, who is apparently engaged with a fresh inspection of the trail.

“Have you found anything else?” asks Cypriano.

“No, señorito. Instead, I’ve lost something.”

“What?” inquire both, in a breath.

“I don’t any longer see the tracks of that shod horse. I mean the big one we know nothing about. The pony’s are here, but as for the other, they’re missing.”

All three now join in a search for them, riding slowly along the trail, and in different directions backward and forward. But after some minutes thus passed, their search proves fruitless; no shod hoof-print, save that of the pony, to be seen.

“This accounts for it,” mutters Caspar, giving up the quest, and speaking as to himself.

“Accounts for what?” demands Cypriano, who has overheard him.

“The return tracks we saw on the other side of the camp ground. I mean the freshest of them, that went over the ford of the stream. Whoever rode that horse, whether red or white man, has parted from the Indians at their camping-place, no doubt after staying all night with them. Ha! there’s something at the back of all this; somebody behind Aguara and his Indians – that very somebody I’ve been guessing at. He – to a dead certainty.”

The last sentences are not spoken aloud; for as yet he has not confided his suspicions about Francia and Valdez to his youthful comrades.

“No matter about this shod horse and his back-track,” he continues, once more heading his own animal to the trail. “We’ve now only to do with those that have gone forward, and forward let us haste.”

While speaking he strikes his ponderous spurs against his horse’s ribs, setting him into a canter, the others starting off at the same pace.

For nearly an hour they continue this rate of speed, the conspicuous trail enabling them to travel rapidly and without interruption. It still carries them up the Pilcomayo, though not always along the river’s immediate bank. At intervals it touches the water’s edge, at others parting from it; the deflections due to “bluffs” which here and there impinge upon the stream, leaving no room for path between it and their bases.

When nearing one of these, of greater elevation than common, Gaspar again draws his horse to a halt; though it cannot be the cliff which has caused him to do so. His eyes are not on it, but turned on a tree, which stands at some distance from the path they are pursuing, out upon the open plain. It is one of large size, and light green foliage, the leaves pinnate, bespeaking it of the order leguminosae. It is in fact one of the numerous species of mimosas, or sensitive plants, common on the plains and mountains of South America, and nowhere in greater number, or variety, than in the region of the Gran Chaco.

Ludwig and Cypriano have, in the meantime, also drawn up; and turning towards the tree at which Caspar is gazing, they see its long slender branches covered with clusters of bright yellow flowers, these evidently the object of his attention. There is something about them that calls for his closer scrutiny; since after a glance or two, he turns his horse’s head towards the tree, and rides on to it.

Arrived under its branches, he raises his hand aloft, plucks off a spray of the flowers, and dismounting, proceeds to examine it with curious minuteness, as if a botanist endeavouring to determine its genus or species! But he has no thought of this; for he knows the tree well, knows it to possess certain strange properties, one of which has been his reason for riding up to it, and acting as he now does.

The other two have also drawn near; and dismounting, hold their horses in hand while they watch him with wondering eyes. One of them cries out —

“What now, Caspar? Why are you gathering those flowers?” It is Cypriano who speaks, impatiently adding, “Remember, our time is precious.”

“True, master,” gravely responds the gaucho; “but however precious it is, we may soon have to employ it otherwise than in taking up a trail. If this tree tells truth, we’ll have enough on our hands to take care of ourselves, without thinking of Indians.”

“What mean you?” both interrogated together.

“Come hither, señoritos, and set your eyes on these flowers!”

Thus requested they comply, leading their horses nearer to the tree.

“Well?” exclaims Cypriano, “I see nothing in them; that is, nothing that strikes me as being strange.”

“But I do,” says Ludwig, whose father had given him some instruction in the science of botany. “I observe that the corollas are well nigh closed, which they should not be at this hour of the day, if the tree is in a healthy condition. It’s the üinay; I know it well. We have passed several on the way as we started this morning, but I noticed none with the flowers thus shrivelled up.”

“Stand still a while,” counsels Gaspar, “and watch them.”

They do as desired, and see what greatly surprises them. At least Cypriano is surprised; for the young Paraguayan, unlike his half-German cousin, unobservant of Nature generally, has never given a thought to any of its particular phenomena; and that now presented to his gaze is one of the strangest. For while they stand watching the üinay, its flowers continue to close their corollas, the petals assuming a shrunk, withered appearance.

The gaucho’s countenance seems to take its cue from them, growing graver as he stands contemplating the change.

“Por Dios!” he at length exclaims, “if that tree be speaking truth, and I never knew of the üinay telling lies, we’ll have a storm upon us within twenty minutes’ time; such a one as will sweep us out of our saddles, if we can’t get under shelter. Ay, sure it’s going to be either a temporal or tormenta! And this is not the where to meet it. Here we’d be smothered in a minute, if not blown up into the sky. Stay! I think I know of a place near by, where we may take refuge before it’s down upon us. Quick, muchachos! Mount, and let us away from here. A moment lost, and it may be too late; vamonos!”