Another sun is rising over the Chaco, and its rays, red as the
reflection from a fire, begin to glitter through the stems of the
palm-trees that grow in scattered topes upon the plains bordering the
Pilcomayo. But ere the bright orb has mounted above their crowns, two
horsemen are seen to ride out of the _sumac_ grove, in which Ludwig
Halberger vainly endeavoured to conceal himself from the assassin Valdez
and his savage confederates.
It is not where any of these entered the thicket that the horsemen are
coming out, but at a point some half-mile further up the branch stream,
and on its higher bank, where it reaches the general level of the upper
plain. Here the _sumac_ trees cover the whole slope from the water's
edge to the crest of the bordering ridge, on this ending abruptly.
Though they stand thinly, and there is room enough for two horsemen to
ride abreast, these are not doing so, but one ahead, and leading the
other's horse by a raw-hide rope attached to the bitt ring.
In this manner they have ascended the slope, and have now the great
plain before them; treeless, save here and there a tope of palms or a
scattering of willows around some spot where there is water; but the
taller timber is behind them, and soon as they arrive at its edge, he
riding ahead reins up his horse, the other stopping at the same time.
There is still a belt of bushes between them and the open ground, of
stunted growth, but high enough to hinder their view. To see over them,
the leading horseman stands up in his stirrups, and looks out upon the
plain, his glances directed all around it. These, earnestly
interrogative, tell of apprehension, as of an enemy he might expect to
be there, in short, making a reconnaissance to see if the "coast be
clear."
That he judges it so is evinced by his settling back into his saddle,
and moving on across the belt of bushes; but again, on the skirt of this
and before issuing out of it, he draws bridle, and once more makes a
survey of the plain.
By this time, the sun having mounted higher in the heavens, shines full
upon his face, showing it of dark complexion, darker from the
apprehension now clouding it; but of honest cast, and one which would
otherwise be cheerful, since it is the face of Caspar, the gaucho.
Who the other is cannot be easily told, even with the bright sun beaming
upon him; for his hat, broad-brimmed, is slouched over his forehead,
concealing most part of his countenance. The head itself, oddly, almost
comically, inclined to one side, droops down till the chin nigh touches
his breast. Moreover, an ample cloak, which covers him from neck to
ankles, renders his figure as unrecognisable as his face. With his
horse following that of the gaucho, who leads him at long halter's
reach, he, too, has halted in the outer selvedge of the scrub; still
maintaining the same relative position to the other as when they rode
out from the _sumacs_, and without speaking word or making gesture. In
fact, he stirs not at all, except such motion as is due to the movement
of his horse; but beyond that he neither raises head nor hand, not even
to guide the animal, leaving it to be lead unresistingly.
Were the gaucho of warlike habits, and accustomed to making predatory
expeditions, he might be taken as returning from one with a captive,
whom he is conducting to some safe place of imprisonment. For just like
this his silent companion appears, either fast strapped to his own
saddle, or who, conquered and completely subdued, has resigned all
thoughts of resistance and hopes of escape. But Caspar is essentially a
man of peace, which makes it improbable that he, behind, is his
prisoner.
Whatever the relationship between them, the gaucho for the present pays
no attention to the other horseman, neither speaks to nor turns his eye
toward him; for these are now all upon the plain, scanning it from side
to side, and all round as far as he can command view of it. He is not
himself silent, however, though the words to which he gives utterance
are spoken in a low tone, and by way of soliloquy, thus:--
"'Twill never do to go back by the river's bank. Whoever the devils
that have done this dastardly thing, they may be still prowling about,
and to meet them would be for me to get served the same as they've
served him, that's sure; so I'd best take another route, though it be a
bit round the corner. Let me see. I think I know a way that should
lead tolerably straight to the estancia without touching the river or
going anywheres near it. I mustn't even travel within sight of it. If
the Tovas have had any hand in this ugly business--and, by the Virgin, I
believe they have, however hard it is to think so--some of them may
still be near, and possibly a party gone back to their old _tolderia_.
I'll have to give that a wide berth anyhow; so to get across this open
stretch without being seen, if there be anyone on it to see me, will
need manoeuvring. As it is, there don't appear to be a soul, that's so
far satisfactory."
Again he sweeps the grassy expanse with searching glance, his face
brightening up as he observes a flock of ostriches on one side, on the
other a herd of deer--the birds stalking leisurely along, the beasts
tranquilly browsing. Were there Indians upon the plain, it would not be
so. Instead, either one or the other would show excitement. The
behaviour of the dumb creatures imparting to him a certain feeling of
confidence, he says, continuing the soliloquy:--
"I think I may venture it. Nay, I must; and there's no help for't. We
have to get home somehow--and soon. Ah! the Senora! poor lady! What
will she be thinking by this time? And what when we get back? _Valga
me Dios_! I don't know how I shall ever be able to break it to her, or
in what way! It will sure drive her out of her senses, and not much
wonder, either. To lose one of them were enough, but both, and--Well,
no use dwelling on it now; besides, there's no time to be lost. I must
start off at once; and, maybe, as I'm riding on, I'll think of some plan
to communicate the sad news to the Senora, without giving her too sudden
a shock. _Pobrecita_!"
At the pitying exclamation he gives a last interrogative glance over the
plain; then, with a word to his horse, and a touch of the spur, he moves
out into the open, and on; the other animal following, as before, its
rider maintaining the same distance and preserving the self-same
attitude, silent and gestureless as ever!