Gaspar the Gaucho: A Story of the Gran Chaco

Leaping back into their saddles, all three again go off in a gallop; no longer upon the Indian trail, but in a somewhat different direction, the gaucho guiding and leading.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Captive Train

Just about the same time that the party of trackers had turned to take departure from the barometer-tree, a cavalcade of a very different kind, and composed of a greater number of individuals, is moving over the plain, some forty or fifty miles distant. It is the party being tracked; Aguara and his band of young braves on return to the tolderia of their tribe; the one now become their permanent place of abode.

More than one change has taken place in the Indian cohort since it passed over the same ground going downward. In number it is still the same; but one of them does not sit erect upon his horse; instead, lies bent across the animal’s back, like a sack of corn. There he is fast tied to keep him from tailing off, for he could do nothing to prevent this – being dead! He it was who came forth from the sumac grove wounded by Halberger’s bullet, and the wound has proved fatal; this accounting for the pieces of sipos seen at their camping-place.

Another change in the composition of the party is, that the white man, Valdez, is no longer with it. Just as Gaspar had conjectured, from seeing the return tracks of his horse, he had parted company with the Indians at their first encampment, on the night after the murder. Another and very different individual, has taken his place at the head of the troop. The daughter of the murdered man who now rides by the side of the young Tovas chief!

Though a captive, she is not bound. They have no fear of her attempting to escape; nor does she even think of it. Though ever so well mounted, she knows such an attempt would be idle, and on her diminutive roadster, which she still rides, utterly hopeless. Therefore, since the moment of being made captive, no thought of escaping by flight had even entered her mind.

With her long yellow hair hanging dishevelled over her shoulders, her cheeks white as lilies, and an expression of utter woe in her eyes, she sits her saddle seemingly regardless of where she is going, or whether she fall off and get trampled under the hoofs of the horses coming behind. It alone, her pony might wander at will; but alongside Aguara’s horse it keeps pace with the latter, its meek, submissive look, seeming to tell of its being as much a prisoner as its mistress.

Beyond the bereavement she has suffered by her father’s death – for she saw him struck down, and believes him to be dead – no ill-treatment has been offered her: not even insult. Instead, the young cacique has been making efforts to gain her good will! He pretends innocence of any intent to take her father’s life, laying it all on the shoulders of Valdez. Giving reasons too, not without some significance, and an air of probability. For was not the vaqueano an old enemy of her father, while they were resident in Paraguay? The young Tovas chief has learnt this from Valdez himself, and does not fail to speak of it to his prisoner. Further, he pretends it was on account of this very crime the vaqueano has committed, that he parted company with them – in short, fled, fearing punishment had he accompanied them back to their town.

In this manner the wily Indian does all he can to mislead his captive, as they journey along together.

Captive, he does not call her; in this also feigning pretence. He tells her that the reason for their not taking her direct to the estancia is, because of a party of Guaycurus, their enemies, being out on the war path, and it was to discover the whereabouts of these he and his followers were out scouting, when the sad mischance, as he flippantly terms it, arose. That having learnt where the hostile Indians were, he had needs return at once and report to the warriors of his tribe; thus the excuse for his not seeing her to her home. They could not leave her alone in the wilderness, and therefore of necessity she was going with them to their town; afterwards to be taken back to the estancia– to her mother. With such false tales, cunningly conceived, does he endeavour to beguile the ears of his captive.

For all that they are not believed; scarcely listened to. She, to whom they are told, has reasons for discrediting them. Though but a child in years, Francesca Halberger is not childish in understanding. The strange experiences and perils through which she, and all related to her, had passed, have given her the discernment of a more mature age; and well comprehends she her present situation, with other misfortunes that have led to it. She is not ignorant of the young chief’s partiality for herself; more than once made manifest to her in signs unmistakable – by acts as well as words. Besides, what he is not aware of, she had overheard part of the speech which passed between him and the vaqueano, as the latter was entering the sumac grove, to do that deed which has left her without a father. Instead, therefore, of Aguara’s words deceiving her into a false confidence, they but strengthen the feeling of repulsion she has all along had for him. Whether listening or not, she makes no reply to what he says, nor even deigns to look at him. Sitting listless, dejected, with her eyes habitually bent upon the ground, she rides on as one who has utterly abandoned herself to despair. Too sad, too terribly afflicted with what is past, she appears to have no thoughts about the future, no hopes. Or, if at intervals one arises in her mind, it rests not on him now by her side, but her father. For as yet she knows not that Naraguana is dead.

If somewhat changed the personnel of the Indian troop, much more is it altered in the general aspect and behaviour of those who compose it – a very contrast to what was exhibited on their way downward. No longer mirthful, making the welkin ring with their jests and loud laughter; instead, there is silence upon their lips, sadness in their hearts, and gloom – even fear – on their faces. For they are carrying home one of their number a corpse, and dread telling the tale of it. What will the elders say, when they hear what has occurred? What do?

The feeling among Aguara’s followers may be learnt from a dialogue, carried on between two of them who ride in the rear of the troop. They have been speaking of their paleface captive, and extolling her charms, one of them saying how much their young cacique is to be envied his good luck, in possession of such a charming creature.

“After all, it may bring him into trouble,” suggests the more sage of the speakers, adding, “ay, and ourselves as well – every one of us.”

“How that,” inquires the other.

“Well; you know, if Naraguana had been living, he would never have allowed this.”

“But Naraguana is not living, and who is to gainsay the will of Aguara? He’s now our chief, and can do as he likes with this captive girl, or any other. Can’t he?”

“No; that he can’t. You forget the elders. Besides, you don’t seem to remember the strong friendship that existed between our old cacique and him the vaqueano has killed. I’ve heard say that Naraguana, just before his death, in his last words, left a command we should all stand by the palefaced stranger, her father, and protect him and his against every enemy, as long as they remained in the Chaco. Strange protection we’ve given him! Instead, help to the man who has been his murderer! And now returning home, with his daughter a captive! What will our people think of all this? Some of them, I know, were as much the white man’s friend almost as Naraguana himself. Besides, they won’t like the old cacique’s dying injunction having been thus disregarded. I tell you, there’ll be trouble when we get back.”

“No fear. Our young chief is too popular and powerful. He’ll not find any one to oppose his will; which, as I take it, is to make this little paleface his wife, and our queen. Well, I can’t help envying him; she’s such a sweet thing. But won’t the Tovas maidens go mad with jealousy! I know one – that’s Nacena – ”

The dialogue is interrupted by a shout heard from one who rides near the front of the troop. It is a cry as of alarm, and is so understood by all; at the same time all comprehending that the cause is something seen afar off.

In an instant every individual of the party springs up from his sitting posture, and stands erect upon the back of his horse, gazing out over the plain. The corpse alone lies still; the captive girl also keeping her seat, to all seeming heedless of what has startled them, and caring not what new misfortune may be in store for her. Her cup of sorrow is already full, and she recks not if it run over.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Caught in a Dust-Storm

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.

Chapter Twenty Five.

A Rush for Shelter

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.