Gaspar the Gaucho Part 7

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A TEDIOUS JOURNEY.

It yet wants full two hours of sunset, as the gaucho and his companion come within sight of the estancia. Still, so distant, however, that the house appears not bigger than a dove-cot--a mere fleck of yellow, the colour of the _cana brava_, of which its walls are constructed--half hidden by the green foliage of the trees standing around it. The point from which it is viewed is on the summit of a low hill, at least a league off, and in a direct line between the house itself and the deserted Indian village. For although the returning travellers have not pa.s.sed through the latter place, but, for reasons already given, intentionally avoided it, the route they had taken, now nearer home, has brought them back into that, between it and the estancia.

A slow journey they have made. It is all of eight hours since, at earliest sunrise, they rode out from among the _sumac_ trees on the bank of the branch stream; and the distance gone over cannot be much more than twenty miles. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances the gaucho would have done it in two hours, or less.

As it is, he has had reasons for delaying, more than one. First, his desire to make the journey without being observed; and to guard against this, he has been zig-zagging a good deal, to take advantage of such cover as was offered by the palm-groves and scattered copses of _quebracho_.

A second cause r.e.t.a.r.ding him has been the strange behaviour of his travelling companion, whose horse he has had to look after all along the way. Nothing has this rider done for himself, nor is yet doing; neither guides the horse, nor lays hand upon the bridle-rein, which, caught over the saddle-bow, swings loosely about. He does not even urge the animal on by whip or spur. And as for word, he has not spoken one all day, neither to the gaucho, nor in soliloquy to himself! Silent he is, as when halted by the edge of the _sumac_ wood, and in exactly the same att.i.tude; the only change observable being his hat, which is a little more slouched over his face, now quite concealing it.

But the two causes a.s.signed are not the only ones why they have been so long in reaching the spot where they now are. There is a third influencing the gaucho. He has not wished to make better speed. Nor does he yet desire it, as is evident by his actions. For now arrived on the hill's top, within sight of home, instead of hastening on towards it he brings his horse to a dead halt, the other, as if mechanically, stopping too. It is not that the animals are tired, and need rest. The pause is for a different purpose; of which some words spoken by the gaucho to himself, give indication. Still in the saddle, his face turned towards the distant dwelling, with eyes intently regarding it, he says:--

"Under that roof are three hearts beating anxiously now, I know. Soon to be sadder, though; possibly, one of them to break outright. _Pobere senora_! what will she say when she hears--when she sees this?

_Santissima_! 'twill go wellnigh killing her, if it don't quite!"

While speaking, he has glanced over his shoulder at the other horseman, who is half a length behind. But again facing to the house, and fixing his gaze upon it, he continues:--

"And Cypriano--poor lad! He'll have his little heart sorely tried, too.

So fond of his cousin, and no wonder, such a sweet _chiquit.i.ta_. That will be a house of mourning, when I get home to it!"

Once more he pauses in his muttered speech, as if to consider something.

Then, looking up at the sun, proceeds:

"It'll be full two hours yet before that sets. Withal I must wait for its setting. 'Twill never do to take him home in broad daylight. No; she mustn't see him thus, and sha'n't--if I can help it. I'll stop here till it's dark, and, meanwhile, think about the best way of breaking it to her. _Carramba_! that will be a scene! I could almost wish myself without eyes, rather than witness it. Ah! me! It'll be enough painful to listen to their lamentations."

In conformity with, the intention just declared, he turns his horse's head towards a grand _ombu_--growing not far off--the same which, the day before, guided him back to his lost way--and riding on to it pulls up beneath its spreading branches. The other horse, following, stops too. But the man upon his back stays there, while the gaucho acts differently; dismounting, and attaching the bridles of both horses to a branch of the tree. Then he stretches himself along the earth, not to seek sleep or rest, but the better to give his thoughts to reflection, on that about which he has been speaking.

He has not been many minutes in his rec.u.mbent att.i.tude before being aroused from it. With his ears so close to the ground, sounds are carried to him from afar, and one now reaching them causes him first to start into a sitting posture, and then stand upon his feet. It is but the trample of a horse, and looking in the direction whence it comes sees the animal itself, and its rider soon is seen, recognising both.

"Cypriano!" he mechanically exclaims, adding, "_Pobrecito_! He's been impatient; anxious; too much to stay for my return, and now's coming after."

It is Cypriano, approaching from the direction of the house whence he has but lately started, and at great speed, urged on by the anxiety which oppresses him. But he is not heading for the _ombu_, instead, along the more direct path to the Indian town, which would take him past the tree at some three hundred yards' distance.

He does not pa.s.s it, nevertheless. Before he has got half-way up the hill, Caspar, taking the bridle of his own horse from the branch, leaps into the saddle, and gallops down to meet him. The gaucho has a reason for not hailing him at a distance, or calling him to come under the _ombu_, till he first held speech with him.

"Caspar!" shouts the youth excitedly, soon as he catches sight of the other coming towards him. "What news? Oh? you've not found them! I see you haven't!"

"Calm yourself, young master!" rejoins the gaucho, now close up to him; "I have found them--that is, one of them."

"Only one--which?" half distractedly interrogates the youth.

"Your uncle--but, alas--"

"Dead--dead! I know it by the way you speak. But my cousin! Where is she? Still living? Say so, Caspar! Oh, say but that!"

"Come senorito, be brave; as I know you are. It may not be so bad for the _nina_, your cousin. I've no doubt she's still alive, though I've not been successful in finding her. As for your uncle, you must prepare yourself to see something that'll pain you. Now, promise me you'll bear it bravely--say you will, and come along with me!"

At this Gaspar turns his horse, and heads him back for the _ombu_, the other silently following, stunned almost beyond the power of speech.

But once under the tree, and seeing what he there sees, it returns to him. Then the gaucho is witness to an exhibition of grief and rage, both wild as ever agitated the breast of a boy.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

DEAD!

Once more the sun is going down over the pampa, but still nothing seen upon it to cheer the eyes of the Senora Halberger, neither those first missing, nor they who went after. One after another she has seen them depart, but in vain looks for their return.

And now, as she stands with eyes wandering over that gra.s.sy wilderness, she can almost imagine it a maelstrom or some voracious monster, that swallows up all who venture upon it. As the purple of twilight a.s.sumes the darker shade of night, it seems to her as though some unearthly and invisible hand were spreading a pall over the plain to cover her dear ones, somewhere lying dead upon it.

She is in the verandah with her son, and side by side they stand gazing outward, as long as there is light for them to see. Even after darkness has descended they continue to strain their eyes mechanically, but despairingly, she more hopeless and feeling more forlorn than ever. All gone but Ludwig! for even her nephew may not return. Where Caspar, a strong man and experienced in the ways of the wilderness, has failed to find the lost ones, what chance will there be for Cypriano? More like some cruel enemy has made captives of them all, killing all, one after the other, and he, falling into the same snare, has been sacrificed as the rest!

Dark as is this hour of her apprehension, there is yet a darker one in store for her; but before it there is to be light, with joy--alas!

short-lived as that bright, garish gleam of sun which often precedes the wildest burst of a storm. Just as the last ray of hope has forsaken her, a house-dog, lying outstretched by the verandah starts to its feet with a growl, and bounding off into the darkness, sets up a sonorous baying.

Both mother and son step hastily forward to the bal.u.s.ter rail, and resting hands on it, again strain their eyes outward, now as never before, at the same time listening as for some signal sound, on the hearing of which hung their very lives.

Soon they both hear and see what gives them gladness unspeakable, their ears first imparting it by a sound sweeter to them than any music, for it is the tread of horses' hoofs upon the firm turf of the plain; and almost in the same instant they see the horses themselves, each with a rider upon its back.

The exclamation that leaps from the mother's lips is the cry of a heart long held in torture suddenly released, and without staying to repeat it, she rushes out of the verandah and on across the patch of enclosed ground--not stopping till outside the palings which enclose it. Ludwig following, comes again by her side, and the two stand with eyes fixed on the approaching forms, there now so near that they are able to make out their number.

But this gives them surprise, somewhat alarming them afresh. For there are but _three_ where there should be _four_.

"It must be your father and Francesca, with Caspar," says the senora, speaking in doubt. "Cypriano has missed them all, I suppose. But he'll come too--"

"No, mother," interrupts Ludwig, "Cypriano is there. I can see a white horse, that must be his."

"Gaspar then; he it is that's behind."

She says this with a secret hope it may be so.

"It don't look like as if Gaspar was behind," returns Ludwig, hesitating in his speech, for his eyes, as his heart, tell him there is still something amiss. "Two of them," he continues, "are men, full grown, and the third is surely Cypriano."

They have no time for further discussion or conjecture--no occasion for it. The three shadowy figures are now very near, and just as the foremost pulls up in front of the palings, the moon bursting forth from behind a cloud flashes her full light upon his face, and they see it is Gaspar. The figures farther off are lit up at the same time, and the senora recognises them as her husband and nephew. A quick searching glance carried behind to the croups of their horses shows her there is no one save those seated in the saddle.

"Where is Francesca?" she cries out in agonised accents. "Where is my daughter?"

No one makes answer; not any of them speaks. Gaspar, who is nearest, but hangs his head, as does his master behind him.

"What means all this?" is her next question, as she dashes past the gaucho's horse, and on to her husband, as she goes crying out, "Where is Francesca? What have you done with my child?"

He makes no reply, nor any gesture--not even a word to acknowledge her presence! Drawing closer she clutches him by the knee, continuing her distracted interrogatories.

"Husband! why are you thus silent? Ludwig, dear Ludwig, why don't you answer me? Ah! now I know. She is dead--dead!"

"Not _she_, but _he_," says a voice close to her ear--that of Gaspar, who has dismounted and stepped up to her.