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
passed 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 circumstances 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 retarding 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
attitude; the only change observable being his hat, which is a little
more slouched over his face, now quite concealing it.
But the two causes assigned 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 _chiquitita_. 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 recumbent attitude 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 pass 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.