WE BUILD OUR HOUSE AND LAY OUT GARDENS.
About a hundred yards to the left of the buildings erected for the new
colony and down near the lake, or laguna, was an elevated piece of ground
about an acre in extent. It was bounded on two sides by water, which would
thus form for it a kind of natural protection in case of Indian invasion.
It really was part and parcel of Moncrieff's claim or land, and at an
early date in his career, thinking probably it might come in handy some
day for a site on which to build, he had taken considerable pains to plant
it with rows of beautiful trees, especially on the sides next the water
and facing the west.
My brothers and I arranged to have this, and Moncrieff was well pleased to
have us so near to him. A more excellent position for a house could hardly
be, and we determined it should be a good substantial one, and of as great
architectural beauty as possible.
Having therefore laid out our farm proper, and stocked it with sheep and
cattle, positioned our shepherds, and installed our labourers and general
servants under the charge of a _capataz_, or working bailiff, we turned
our attention to the erection of our house, or mansion, as Dugald grandly
called it.
'Of course you will cut your coat according to your cloth,' said
Moncrieff, as he came one evening into the room we had set apart for our
private study. He had found us to-night with our heads all together over
a huge sheet of paper on which we were planning out our house.
'Oh yes,' said Donald, 'that we must do.'
'But,' said Dugald, 'we do not expect to remain all our lives downright
poor settlers.'
'That I am sure you won't.'
'Well, I propose building a much bigger house than we really want, so that
when we do get a bit rich we can furnish it and set up--set up--'
'Set up a carriage and pair, eh?' said Donald, who was very matter of
fact--'a carriage and pair, Dugald, a billiard-room, Turkey carpets, woven
all in one piece, a cellar of old wine, a butler in black and flunkeys in
plush--is that your notion?'
Donald and I laughed, and Dugald looked cross.
Moncrieff did not laugh: he had too much tact, and was far too
kind-hearted to throw cold water over our young brother's ambitions and
aspirations.
'And what sort of a house do you propose?' he said to us.
As he spoke he took a chair at Dugald's side of the table and put his arm
gently across the boy's shoulders. There was very much in this simple act,
and I feel sure Dugald loved him for it, and felt he had some one to
assist his schemes.
'Oh,' replied Donald, 'a small tasteful cottage. That would suit well for
the present, I think. What do you think, Murdoch?'
'I think with you,' I replied.
After having heard Moncrieff speaking so much about cutting coats
according to cloth and looking before 'louping,' and all the rest of it,
we were hardly prepared to hear him on the present occasion say boldly,
'And _I_ think with Dugald.'
'Bravo, Moncrieff!' cried Dugald. 'I felt sure--'
'Bide a wee, though, lad. Ca' canny.[7] Now listen, the lot o' ye. Ye see,
Murdoch man, your proposed cottage would cost a good bit of money and
time and trouble, and when you thought of a bigger place, down that
cottage must come, with an expense of more time and more trouble, even
allowing that money was of little object. Besides, where are you going to
live after your cottage is knocked down and while your mansion is
building? So I say Dugald is right to some extent. Begin building your big
house bit by bit.'
'In wings?'
'Preceesely, sirs; ye can add and add as you like, and as you can afford
it.'
It was now our time to cry, 'Bravo, Moncrieff!'
'I wonder, Donald, we didn't think of this plan.'
'Ah,' said Moncrieff, 'ye canna put young he'ds on auld shoulders, as my
mither says.'
So Moncrieff's plan was finally adopted--we would build our house wing by
wing.
It took us weeks, however, to decide in what particular style of
architecture it should be built. Among the literature which Moncrieff had
brought out from England with him was a whole library in itself of the
bound volumes of good magazines; and it was from a picture in one of these
that we finally decided what our Coila Villa should be like, though, of
course, the plan would be slightly altered to suit circumstances of
climate, &c. It was to be--briefly stated--a winged bungalow of only one
story, with a handsome square tower and portico in the centre, and
verandahs nearly all round. So one wing and the tower was commenced at
once. But bricks were to be made, and timber cut and dried and fashioned,
and no end of other things were to be accomplished before we actually set
about the erection.
To do all these things we appointed a little army of Gauchos, with two or
three handy men-of-all-work from Scotland.
Meanwhile our villa gardens were planned and our bushes and trees were
planted.
Terraces, too, were contrived to face the lake, and Dugald one evening
proposed a boat-house and boat, and this was carried without a dissentient
voice.
Dugald was extremely fond of our sister Flora. We only wondered that he
now spoke about her so seldom. But if he spoke but little of her he
thought the more, and we could see that all his plans for the
beautification and adornment of the villa had but one end and object--the
delight and gratification of its future little mistress.
Dear old Dugald! he had such a kind lump of a heart of his own, and never
took any of our chaff and banter unpleasantly. But I am quite sure that as
far as he himself was concerned he never would have troubled himself about
even the boat-house or the terraced gardens either, for every idle hour
that he could spare he spent on the hill, as he called it, with his dog--a
lovely Irish setter--and his gun.
I met him one morning going off as usual with Dash, the setter, close
beside the little mule he rode, and with his gun slung over his back.
'Where away, old man?' I said.
'Only to a little laguna I've found among the hills, and I mean to have a
grand bag to-day.'
'Well, you're off early!'
'Yes; there is little to be done at home, and there are some rare fine
ducks up yonder.'
'You'll be back to luncheon?'
'I'll try. If not, don't wait.'
'Not likely; ta-ta! Good luck to you! But you really ought to have a
Gaucho with you.'
'Nonsense, Murdoch! I don't need a groom. Dash and old Tootsie, the mule,
are all I want.'
It was the end of winter, or rather beginning of spring, but Moncrieff had
not yet declared close time, and Dugald managed to supply the larder with
more species of game than we could tell the names of. Birds, especially,
he brought home on his saddle and in his bag; birds of all sizes, from
the little luscious dove to the black swan itself; and one day he actually
came along up the avenue with a dead ostrich. He could ride that mule of
his anywhere. I believe he could have ridden along the parapet of London
Bridge, so we were never surprised to see Dugald draw rein at the lower
sitting-room window, within the verandah. He was always laughing and merry
and mischievous-looking when he had had extra good luck; but the day he
landed that ostrich he was fairly wild with excitement. The body of it was
given to the Gauchos, and they made very merry over it: invited their
friends, in fact, and roasted the huge bird whole out of doors. They did
so in true Patagonian fashion--to wit, the ostrich was first trussed and
cleaned, a roaring fire of wood having been made, round stones were made
almost red-hot. The stones were for stuffing, though this kind of stuffing
is not very eatable, but it helps to cook the bird. The fire was then
raked away, and the dinner laid down and covered up. Meanwhile the
Gauchos, male and female, girls and boys, had a dance. The ubiquitous
guitars, of course, were the instruments, and two of these made not a bad
little band. After dinner they danced again, and wound up by wishing
Dugald all the good luck in the world, and plenty more ostriches. The
feathers of this big game-bird were carefully packed and sent home to
mother and Flora.
Well, we had got so used to Dugald's solitary ways that we never thought
anything of even his somewhat prolonged absence on the hill, for he
usually dropped round when luncheon was pretty nearly done. There was
always something kept warm for 'old Dugald,' as we all called him, and I
declare it did every one of us good to see him eat. His appetite was
certainly the proverbial appetite of a hunter.
On this particular day, however, old Dugald did not return to luncheon.
'Perhaps,' said Donald, 'he is dining with some of the shepherds, or
having "a pick at a priest's," as he calls it.'
'Perhaps,' I said musingly. The afternoon wore away, and there were no
signs of our brother coming, so I began to get rather uneasy, and spoke to
Donald about it.
'He may have met with an accident,' I said, 'or fifty things may have
happened.'
'Well,' replied Donald, 'I don't suppose fifty things have happened; but
as you seem a bit anxious, suppose we mount our mules, take a Gaucho with
us, and institute a search expedition?'
'I'm willing,' I cried, jumping up, 'and here's for off!'
There was going to be an extra good dinner that day, because we expected
letters from home, and our runner would be back from the distant
post-office in good time to let us read our epistles before the gong
sounded and so discuss them at table.
'Hurry up, boys; don't be late, mind!' cried aunt, as our mules were
brought round to the portico, and we were mounted.
'All right, auntie dear!' replied Donald, waving his hand; 'and mind those
partridges are done to a turn; we'll be all delightfully hungry.'
The Gaucho knew all Dugald's trails well, and when we mentioned the small
distant laguna, he set out at once in the direction of the glen. He made
so many windings, however, and took so many different turns through bush
and grass and scrub, that we began to wonder however Dugald could have
found the road.
But Dugald had a way of his own of getting back through even a cactus
labyrinth. It was a very simple one, too. He never 'loaded up,' as he
termed it; that is, he did not hang his game to his saddle till he meant
to start for home; then he mounted, whistled to Dash, who capered and
barked in front of the mule, permitted the reins to lie loosely on the
animal's neck, and--there he was! For not only did the good beast take him
safely back to Coila, as we called our _estancia_, but he took him by the
best roads; and even when he seemed to Dugald's human sense to be going
absolutely and entirely wrong, he never argued with him.
'Reason raise o'er instinct, if you can;
In this 'tis God directs, in that 'tis man.'
'You are certain he will come this way, Zambo?' I said to our Gaucho.
'Plenty certain, senor. I follow de trail now.'
I looked over my saddle-bow; so did Donald, but no trail could we
see--only the hard, yellow, sandy gravel.
We came at last to the hilly regions. It was exceedingly quiet and still
here; hardly a creature of any kind to be seen except now and then a kite,
or even condor, the latter winging his silent way to the distant
mountains. At times we passed a biscacha village. The biscacha is not a
tribe of Indians, but, like the coney, a very feeble people, who dwell in
caves or burrow underground, but all day long may be seen playing about
the mounds they raise, or sitting on their hind legs on top of them. They
are really a species of prairie-dog. With them invariably live a tribe of
little owls--the burrowing owls--and it seems to be a mutual understanding
that the owls have the principal possession of these residential chambers
by day, while the biscachas occupy them by night. This arrangement answers
wonderfully well, and I have proved over and over again that they are
exceedingly fond of each other. The biscachas themselves are not very
demonstrative, either in their fun or affection, but if one of them be
killed, and is lying dead outside the burrow, the poor owl often exhibits
the most frantic grief for the murder of his little housekeeper, and will
even show signs of a desire to attack the animal--especially if a
dog--which has caused his affliction.
Donald and I, with our guide, now reached the land of the giant cacti. We
all at home here in Britain know something of the beauty of the common
prickly cactus that grows in window-gardens or in hot-houses, and
surprises us with the crimson glory of its flowers, which grow from such
odd parts of the plant; but here we were in the land of the cacti. Dugald
knew it well, and used to tell us all about them; so tall, so stately, so
strange and weird, that we felt as if in another planet. Already the bloom
was on some of them--for in this country flowers soon hear the voice of
spring--but in the proper season nothing that ever I beheld can surpass
the gorgeous beauty of these giant cacti.
The sun began to sink uncomfortably low down on the horizon, and my
anxiety increased every minute. Why did not Dugald meet us? Why did we not
even hear the sound of his gun, for the Gaucho told us we were close to
the laguna?
Presently the cacti disappeared behind us, and we found ourselves in open
ground, with here and there a tall, weird-looking tree. How those
trees--they were not natives--had come there we were at first at a loss to
understand, but when we reached the foot of a grass-grown hill or sand
dune, and came suddenly on the ruins of what appeared a Jesuit hermitage
or monastery, the mystery was explained.
On rounding a spur of this hill, lo! the lake; and not far from the foot
of a tree, behold! our truant brother. Beside him was Dash, and not a
great way off, tied to a dwarf algaroba tree, stood the mule. Dugald was
sitting on the ground, with his gun over his arm, gazing up into the
tree.
'Dugald! Dugald!' I cried.
But Dugald never moved his head. Was he dead, or were these green sand
dunes fairy hillocks, and my brother enchanted?
I leapt off my mule, and, rifle in hand, went on by myself, never taking
my eyes off my brother, and with my heart playing pit-a-pat against my
ribs.
'Dugald!' I said again.
He never moved.
'Dugald, speak!'
He spoke now almost in a stage whisper:
'A lion in the tree. Have you your rifle?'
I beckoned to my brother to come on, and at the same moment the monster
gave voice. I was near enough now to take aim at the puma; he was lying in
a cat-like attitude on one of the highest limbs. But the angry growl and
the moving tail told me plainly enough he was preparing to spring, and
spring on Dugald. It was the first wild beast I had ever drawn bead upon,
and I confess it was a supreme moment; oh, not of joy, but,--shall I say
it?--fear.
What if I should miss!
But there was no time for cogitation. I raised my rifle. At the self-same
moment, as if knowing his danger, the brute sprang off the bough. The
bullet met him in mid-air, and--_he fell dead at Dugald's feet_.
The ball had entered the neck and gone right on and through the heart. One
coughing roar, an opening and shutting of the terrible jaws--which were
covered with blood and froth--and a few convulsive movements of the hind
legs, and all was over.
'Thank Heaven, you are saved, dear old Dugald!' I cried.
'Yes,' said Dugald, getting up and coolly stretching himself; 'but you've
been a precious long time in coming.'
'And you were waiting for us?'
'I couldn't get away. I was sitting here when I noticed the lion. Dash and
I were having a bit of lunch. My cartridges are all on the mule, so I've
been staring fixedly at that monster ever since. I knew it was my only
chance. If I had moved away, or even turned my head, he would have had me
as sure as--'
'But, I say,' he added, touching the dead puma with his foot, '_isn't_ he
a fine fellow? What a splendid skin to send home to Flora!'
This shows what sort of a boy Brother Dugald was; and now that all danger
was past and gone, although I pretended to be angry with him for his
rashness, I really could not help smiling.
'But what a crack shot you are, Murdoch!' he added; 'I had no idea--I--I
really couldn't have done much better myself.'
'Well, Dugald,' I replied, 'I may do better next time, but to tell the
truth I aimed at the beast _when he was on the branch_.'
'And hit him ten feet below it. Ha! ha! ha!'
We all laughed now. We could afford it.
The Gaucho whipped the puma out of his skin in less than a minute, and off
we started for home.
I was the hero of the evening; though Dugald never told them of my funny
aim. Bombazo, who had long since recovered his spirits, was well to the
front with stories of his own personal prowess and narrow escapes; but
while relating these he never addressed old Jenny, for the ancient and
humorsome dame had told him one day that 'big lees were thrown awa' upon
her.'
What a happy evening we spent, for our Gaucho runner had brought
'Good news from Home!'
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[7] 'Ca' Canny' = Drive slowly.