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 hitherto, 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 grass
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 faggots 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 shells 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 grass 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 grass 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 balls 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
assure 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 grass 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.
"Yes, indeed, young masters," proceeds the gaucho. "The thing I now
hold in my hand has once, and not very long ago, been in the hands of a
Tovas Indian!"
"A Tovas!" exclaims Cypriano, excitedly. "What reason have you for
thinking so?"
"The best of all reasons. Because, so far as is known to me, no other
Chaco Indians but they use the _bola perdida_. That ball has been
handled, mislaid, and left here behind by a Tovas traitor. You are
right, _senorito_," he adds, speaking to Cypriano. "Whoever may have
murdered my poor master, your uncle, Aguara is he who has carried off
your cousin."
"Let us on!" cries Cypriano, without another word. "O, Ludwig!" he
adds, "we mustn't lose a moment, nor make the least delay. Think of
dear Francesca in the power of that savage beast. What may he not do
with her?"
Ludwig needs no such urging to lead him on. His heart of brother is
boiling with rage, as that of son almost broken by grief; and away ride
they along the trail, with more haste and greater earnestness than ever.