Gaspar--as all gauchos, skilled in the concoction of it--in a short time has the three _mates_ 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 _dueno_. 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 a.s.signed 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 G.o.d; 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 Senor Jose Francia. He never forgives. Nor is it likely he has forgotten, either, what the _dueno_ 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, _senorito_; 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 _dueno_ of the danger we were in. Of course, Naraguana kept him constantly a.s.sured; 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. a.s.sa.s.sin, 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 pa.s.sed along the trail going back, and alone? Ah! the chance I've let escape me! Such an opportunity for settling old scores with Senor 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 pa.s.sions which agitate him; and he at length sinks into a profound slumber, not broken till the cura.s.sows 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 _mates_, 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. .h.i.therto, 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 gra.s.s 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 f.a.ggots 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 sh.e.l.ls of a half-score ostrich eggs, are all the _debris_ 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 b.a.l.l.s 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, _senoritos_; 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_."

"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 a.s.sure you, _senoritos_; 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 gra.s.s 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.