He stays not for more, but again plying the spur, re-enters the thicket, not to go back to the ford, but on in the opposite direction. The _tapir_ path takes him up an acclivity, from the stream's edge to the level of the higher plain, and against it he urges his horse to as much speed as the nature of the ground will permit. He has thrown away caution now, and presses forward without fear, expecting soon to see a man on horseback, but so badly crippled as to be easily overtaken, and as easily overcome.

What he does see, on reaching the summit of the slope, is something very different--two horses instead of one, with a man upon the back of each!

And though one may be wounded and disabled, as he knows him to be, the other is not so, as he can well see. Instead, a man in full health, strength, and vigour, one Rufino Valdez fears as much as hates, though hating him with his whole heart. For it is Gaspar, the gaucho, once his rival in the affections of a Paraguayan girl, and successful in gaining them.

That the _vaqueano's_ fear now predominates over his antipathy is evident from his behaviour. Instead of dashing on after to overtake the hors.e.m.e.n, who, with backs towards him, are slowly retiring, he shows only a desire to shun them. True, there would be two to one, and he has himself but a single arm available--his left, broken and bandaged, being now in a sling. But then only one of the two would be likely to stand against him, the other being too far gone for light. Indeed, Halberger--for Valdez naturally supposes it to be he--sits drooped in his saddle, as though he had difficulty in keeping to it. Not that he has any idea of attacking them does the _vaqueano_ take note of this, nor has he the slightest thought of attempting to overtake them. Even knew he that the wounded man were about to drop dead, he knows the other would be more than his match, with both his own arms sound and at their best, for they have been already locked in deadly strife with those of the gaucho, who could have taken his life, but generously forebore. Not for the world would Rufino Valdez again engage in single combat with Caspar Mendez, and soon as setting eyes on the latter he draws bridle so abruptly that his horse starts back as if he had trodden upon a rattlesnake.

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 pa.s.sed almost out of his sight, their heads gradually going down behind the culms of the tall pampas gra.s.s, 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, senores, 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 a.s.suncion 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 a.s.suncion--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 gla.s.s 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 gra.s.s, 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 b.u.t.ton, 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 Senor 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 pa.s.sed 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 senora, 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 antic.i.p.ating.

In vain her son Ludwig, an affectionate lad, essays to cheer her. Do his best to a.s.sign 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 senora, 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 senora, 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 c.o.c.k 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 pa.s.sed 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 senora. 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 _guarape_. 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 senora 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 pa.s.ses 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.