"Naraguana dead!" exclaims the gaucho, as standing upon the scaffold he
gazes upon the form at his feet. "_Santissima_! this is strange!"
"But is it certainly the old _cacique_?" he adds, again stooping down
and raising the selvedge of feather cloth, which had fallen back over
the face. Once more exposed to view, the features deeply-furrowed with
age--for Naraguana was a very old man--and now further shrivelled by the
dry winds of the Chaco, with the skin drawn tight over high-cheek bones,
and hollow, sightless sockets, where once shone pair of eyes coal-black
and keen--all this under the pale moonlight, presents a spectacle at
once weird-like and ghastly, as if of a death's head itself!
Still it is the face of Naraguana, as at a glance the gaucho perceives,
muttering, "Yes; it's the old chief, sure enough. Dead, and dried up
like a mummy! Died of old age, no doubt. Well," he continues, in
graver tone, "by whatever way he may have come to his end, no greater
misfortune could have befallen us. _Carrai_! it's Satan's own luck!"
Having thus delivered himself, he stands for a while on the platform,
but no longer looking at the corpse, nor any of the relics around it.
Instead, his eyes are turned towards the tree, under whose shadow his
youthful comrades are reclining, and as he supposes asleep. On that
side is the moon, and as her light falls over his face, there can be
seen upon it an expression of great anxiety and pain--greater than any
that has marked it since that moment, when in the _sumac_ grove he bent
over the dead body of his murdered master.
But the troubled look now overspreading his features springs not from
grief, nor has anger aught to do with it. Instead, it is all
apprehension. For now, as though a curtain had been suddenly lifted
before his eyes, he sees beyond it, there perceiving for himself and his
companions danger such as they had not yet been called upon to
encounter. All along the route their thoughts were turned to Naraguana,
and on him rested their hopes. Naraguana can do nothing for them now.
"No!" reflects the gaucho, despairingly; "we can expect no help from
him. And who else is there to give it? Who, besides, would have the
power to serve us, even if the will be not wanting? No one, I fear.
_Mil Diablos_! it's a black look-out, now--the very blackest!"
Again facing round to the corpse, and fixing his eyes upon the still
uncovered face, he seems to examine it as though it were a trail upon
the pampas, in order to discover what tale it may tell. And just for a
like purpose does he now scrutinise the features of the dead _cacique_,
as appears by his soliloquy succeeding.
"Yes; I understand it all now--everything. He's been dead some time--at
least two or three weeks. That explains their leaving the other town in
such haste, and coming on here. Dead, or deadly sick, before he left
it, the old chief would have himself to think of, and so sent no word to
us at the _estancia_. No blame to him for not doing so. And now that
the young one's in power, with a fool's head and a wolf's heart, what
may we expect from him? Ah, what? In a matter like this, neither grace
nor mercy. I know he loves the _muchachita_, with such love as a savage
may--passionately, madly. All the worse for her, poor thing! And all
the poorer chance for us to get her away from him. _Por Dios_! it does
look dark."
After a pause, he continues:
"His making her a captive and bringing her on here, I can quite
understand; that's all natural enough, since his father being dead,
there's no longer any one to hinder him doing as he likes. It's only
odd his chancing to meet master out that day, so far from home. One
would suppose he'd been watching the _estancia_, and saw them as they
went away from it. But then, there were no strange tracks about the
place, nor anywhere near it. And I could discover none by the old
_tolderia_ that seemed at all fresh, excepting those of the shod horse.
But whoever rode him didn't seem to have come anywhere near the house;
certainly not on this side. For all that, he might have approached it
from the other, and then ridden round, to meet the Indians afterwards at
the crossing of the stream. Well, I shall give the whole ground a
better examination once we get back."
"Get back!" he exclaims, repeating his words after a pause, and in
changed tone. "Shall we ever get back? That's the question now, and a
very doubtful one it is. But," he adds, turning to descend from the
scaffold, "it won't help us any on the road my remaining up here. If
the old _cacique's_ body still had the breath in it, may be it might.
But as it hasn't the sooner I bid good-bye to it the better. _Adios_,
Naraguana! _Pasa V. buena noche_!"
Were death itself staring him in the face, instead of seeing it as he
does in the face of another man, Gaspar the gaucho, could not forego a
jest, so much delights he to indulge in his ludicrous humour.
After unburdening himself as above, he once more closes his arms around
the notched post, and lowers himself from the platform.
But again upon the ground, and standing with face toward the fig-tree,
the gravity of its expression is resumed, and he seems to hesitate about
returning to the place of bivouac, where his youthful companions are now
no doubt enjoying the sweets of a profound slumber.
"A pity to disturb them!" he mutters to himself; "and with such a tale
as I have now to tell. But it must be told, and at once. Now that
everything's changed, new plans must be thought of, and new steps taken.
If we're to enter the Indian town at all, it will have to be in a
different way from what we intended. _Caspita_! how the luck's turned
against us!"
And with this desponding reflection, he moves off from the scaffold;
and, making his way among the mausoleums, once more approaches the spot
where the South American banyan casts its sombre shadow over them.