"Why couldn't we take her in among these trees, and tie her to one of
them? There's underwood thick enough to conceal her from the eyes of
anyone passing by, and with the muffle over her head, as now, she
couldn't cry out that they'd hear her."
"'Twould never do," rejoins Gaspar, after an instant of reflection.
"Hide her as we might, they'd find her all the same. These redskins,
half-naked though they are, can glide about among bushes, even thorny
ones, like slippery snakes. So many of them, they'd beat every bit of
thicket within leagues, in less than no time. Besides, you forget their
dogs. Scores they have--ay, hundreds, some of them keen-scented as
beagles. _Carrai_! they'd smell the nasty witch half-a-mile off, and so
discover her whereabouts to their masters."
"True," returns Cypriano, seeing the plan he has proposed would not do.
"In that way they would find her, no doubt."
"And if they didn't," interposed Ludwig, speaking from a sentiment of
humanity, "it would be dreadful."
"Dreadful! what do you mean?" asks Cypriano, looking puzzled. "For them
_not_ to find her is just what we want."
"Ah, cousin! how would it be for _her_? Tied to a tree, with no hope--
no chance of getting loosed from it--she'd die of hunger or thirst--
miserably perish. Wicked as Shebotha is, we'd be worse than she if we
left her to such a fate as that, to say nothing of our bringing it upon
her. Ay, and for doing so we'd deserve the same ourselves, or something
as bad."
"Well, Senor Ludwig," rejoins the gaucho, with an air of submission
rather than conviction, "you may be right in what you say, and I'm not
the man to deny it. But there need be no difference of opinion on that
point. Leaving Shebotha tied to a tree wouldn't do on any account, for
the reasons I've stated. It might--most likely would, and, as you say,
it ought--end in ourselves getting tied to trees or stakes, with a
bundle of faggots between our legs set to the tune of a slow fire.
But," he adds, after a second or two spent considering, "there's only
one other way I can think of to deal with the witch, if we're not to
take her with us."
"What's the other?" asks Cypriano, seeing that the gaucho hesitates to
declare it.
"Why, knock her on the head, or draw the blade of a _cuchilla_ across
her throat, and so stop her grunting at once and for ever. The old
wretch deserves no better fate and hanging's too good for her. But
they'd find her dead body all the same; though not with a tongue in it
to tell who stopped her wind, or, what's of more consequence, how and
which way we went off. Besides, I dare say, the Senor Ludwig wouldn't
agree to our getting disembarrassed of her in that fashion."
"Oh! no, no!" ejaculates the humane youth, horrified at the thought of
such cruelty, "anything but that, Caspar."
"Well, there isn't anything but what I propose doing--that is, taking
her along. I'm willing to accommodate her on the croup of my _recado_,
and will show her all the gallantry she deserves. If you're jealous,
Senor Ludwig, you may have her behind you; and as your horse is the
lightest laden, that might be best. When we're crossing back over that
_riacho_ where you left your saddle-bags, if you're tired of riding
double, you can drop her down among the lightning-eels, and let them
play their batteries upon her old bones till every joint of them cracks
asunder."
Were it not for the gravity of the situation, Gaspar's young companions
would be greatly amused at his quaint rhodomontade. But as both are too
anxious about the future, and in no humour for a jest, Ludwig only
answers with a faint smile; while Cypriano, alone thinking of Francesca,
has somewhat impatiently listened to it. Having hold of the bridle-rein
which the gaucho has handed to him, on the latter ceasing to speak, he
says in urgent tone--
"Bring her along, then, good Gaspar; and be quick about it! As you've
said, we should get down to the plain as soon as possible."
The admonition is not needed, for Gaspar does not waste time over his
jokes, nor allow them to interfere with his action. And while
delivering the last sally, he has been looking to his horse-gear, to see
that his _recade_ is in a proper condition to receive her who is to be
his double.
Satisfied it will do, he strides off to where Shebotha is tied; and in a
few seconds returns bearing the sorceress in his arms, as though she
were but a bundle of rags.
Hoisting her up to his horse's withers, and with a stern threat and a
shake, telling her to stay there, he springs upon the saddle behind her.
It would not be their relative positions, then riding double, were they
starting out on a long journey. But it will do for the half-mile or so,
to the bottom of the hill, and for that short distance it seems idle
either to bind her to his own body or to the saddle. So thinks Gaspar;
but in this the gaucho, with all his prudent sagacity, is for once
incautious to a fault. As they are groping their way down the steep
slope, zig-zagging among the tree trunks that stand thickly on both
sides of the path, a troop of ring-tailed monkeys asleep in their tops,
having their slumbers disturbed by the clink-clink of the hoofs against
stones, set up a lugubrious howling. All the three horses are
affrighted by the unearthly noise, but Gaspar's more than any; so much,
that rearing erect upon its hind legs, with the ground so uneven, the
animal loses balance, and stumbles over on its side.
As the gaucho gathers himself, stunned and somewhat dazed by the fall,
'tis to learn that for that night his riding double is at an end, with
Shebotha sharing the saddle; for the sorceress is no longer to be seen!