"He! who?"

"Alas! senora, 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 gra.s.sy 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 circ.u.mstances 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 _mate_, 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 f.a.ggots; 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. Un.o.bservant 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, _senoritos_! 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 _pieces de resistance_ 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 sh.e.l.l termed _mates_--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.