It is scarce necessary to say, that the storm that over took the Indian
party was the same of which the barometer-tree had given warning to
Gaspar and his young companions. But although many a long league
separated the Indians from those following upon their trail, and it
would take the latter at least another day to reach the spot where the
former had met the _tormenta_, both were beset by it within less than
half-an-hour of the same time. The Indians first, of course, since it
came from the quarter towards which all were travelling, and therefore
in the teeth of pursuers as pursued.
But the trackers were not called upon to sustain its shock, as those
they were tracking up. Instead of its coming upon them in an exposed
situation, before its first puffs became felt they were safe out of
harm's way, having found shelter within the interior of a cavern. It
was this Gaspar alluded to when saying, he knew of a place that would
give them an asylum. For the gaucho had been twice over this ground
before--once on a hunting excursion in the company of his late master;
and once at an earlier period of his life on an expedition of less
pleasant remembrance, when, as a captive himself, he was carried up the
Pilcomayo by a party of Guaycuru Indians, from whom he was fortunate in
making escape.
His knowledge of the cave's locality, however, was not obtained during
his former and forced visit to the district they are now traversing; but
in that made along with the hunter-naturalist; who, partly out of
curiosity, but more for geological investigation, had entered and
explored it.
"It's by the bank of a little _arroyo_ that runs into the Pilcomayo,
some three or four miles above the big river. And, as I take it, not
much further from where we are now. But we must make a cross-cut to
reach it in the quickest time."
This Gaspar says as they part from the barometer-tree. Following out
his intention he heads his horse towards the open plain, and forsakes
the Indian trail, the others following his lead.
They now go in full gallop, fast as their horses can carry them; for
they have no longer any doubts about the coming on of a _tormenta_. The
forecast given them by the flowers of the _uinay_ is gradually being
made good by what they see--a dun yellowish cloud rising against the
horizon ahead. The gaucho well understands the sign, soon as he sees
this recognising it as the dreaded dust-storm.
It approaches them just as it had done the Indians. First the
atmosphere becoming close and hot as the interior of an oven; then
suddenly changing to cold, with gusts of wind, and the sky darkening as
though the sun were eclipsed.
But, unlike the others, they are not exposed to the full fury of the
blast; neither are they in danger of being blinded by the sulphureous
dust, nor pelted with sticks and stones. Before the storm has thus
developed itself they reach the crest of the cliff overhanging the
_arroyo_; and urging their horses down a sloping path remembered by
Gaspar, they get upon the edge of the stream itself. Then, turning up
it, and pressing on for another hundred yards, they arrive at the
cavern's mouth, just as the first puff of the chilly wind sweeps down
the deep rut-like valley through which the _arroyo_ runs.
"In time!" exclaims the gaucho. "Thanks to the Virgin, we're in time!
with not a second to spare," he adds, dismounting, and leading his horse
into the arching entrance, the others doing the same.
Once inside, however, they do not give way to inaction; for Gaspar well
knows they are not yet out of danger.
"Come, _muchachos_," he cries to them, soon as they have disposed of
their animals, "there's something more to be done before we can call
ourselves safe. A _tormenta's_ not a thing to be trifled with. There
isn't corner or cranny in this cave the dust wouldn't reach to. It
could find its way into a corked bottle, I believe. _Carramba_! there
it comes!"
The last words are spoken as a whiff of icy wind, now blowing furiously
down the ravine, turns into the cavern's mouth, bringing with it both
dust and dry leaves.
For a moment the gaucho stands in the entrance gazing out; the others
doing likewise. Little can they see; for the darkness is now almost
opaque, save at intervals, when the ravine is lit up by jets of forked
and sheet lightning. But much do they hear; the loud bellowing of wind,
the roaring of thunder, and the almost continuous crashing of trees,
whose branches break off as though they were but brittle glass. And the
stream which courses past close to the cave's mouth, now a tiny mulct,
will soon be a raging, foaming torrent, as Gaspar well knows.
They stay not to see that, nor aught else. They have other work before
them--the something of which the gaucho spoke, and to which he now
hastily turns, crying out--
"Your ponchos, my lads! Get them, quick! We must close up the entrance
with them, otherwise we'll stand a good chance of being smothered.
_Vaya_!"
Neither needs urging to haste. Young as they are, they too have had
experience of a _tormenta_. More than once they have witnessed it,
remembering how in their house, near Assuncion, it drove the dust
through the keyholes of me doors, finding its way into every crack and
crevice, making ridges across the floor, just as snow in northern
lands--of which, however, they know nothing, save from what they have
read, or been told by one who will tell them of such things no more.
In a few seconds' time, three ponchos--for each possesses one--are
snatched from the cantles of their saddles, and as speedily spread
across the entrance of the cave--just covering it, with not an inch to
spare. With like speed and dexterity, they join them together, in a
rough but firm stitching done by the nimble fingers of the gaucho--his
thread a strip of thong, and for needle the sharp terminal spine of the
_pita_ plant--one of which he finds growing near by. They attach them
at top by their knife blades stuck into seams of the stratified rock,
and at bottom by stones laid along the border; these heavy enough to
keep them in place against the strongest gust of wind.
All this done, they breathe freely, now feeling secure; and after a last
look at the screen to assure himself of its being reliable, the gaucho
turns to his companions, quietly remarking, "Now, _muchachos_, I fancy
we need have no more fear of Mr Tormenta."