This is all about a piebald. People there are like birds that come down
in flocks, hop about chattering, gobble up their seed, then fly away,
forgetting what they have swallowed. I love not to scatter grain for
such as these. With you, friend, it is different. Others may laugh if
they like at the old man of many stories, who puts all things into his
copper memory. I can laugh, too, knowing that all things are ordered by
destiny; otherwise I might sit down and cry.
The things I have seen! There was the piebald that died long ago; I
could take you to the very spot where his bones used to lie bleaching
in the sun. There is a nettle growing on the spot. I saw it yesterday.
What important things are these to remember and talk about! Bones of a
dead horse and a nettle; a young bird that falls from its nest in the
night and is found dead in the morning: puffballs blown about by the
wind: a little lamb left behind by the flock bleating at night amongst
the thorns and thistles, where only the fox or wild dog can hear it!
Small matters are these, and our lives, what are they? And the people
we have known, the men and women who have spoken to us and touched us
with warm hands--the bright eyes and red lips! Can we cast these things
like dead leaves on the fire? Can we lie down full of heaviness because
of them, and sleep and rise in the morning without them? Ah, friend!
Let us to the story of the piebald. There was a cattle-marking at
neighbour Sotelo's estancia, and out of a herd of three thousand head
we had to part all the yearlings to be branded. After that, dinner
and a dance. At sunrise we gathered, about thirty of us; all friends
and neighbours, to do the work. Only with us came one person nobody
knew. He joined us when we were on our way to the cattle; a young man,
slender, well-formed, of pleasing countenance and dressed as few could
dress in those days. His horse also shone with silver trappings. And
what an animal! Many horses have I seen in this life, but never one
with such a presence as this young stranger's piebald.
Arrived at the herd, we began to separate the young animals, the men
riding in couples through the cattle, so that each calf when singled
out could be driven by two horsemen, one on each side, to prevent it
from doubling back. I happened to be mounted on a demon with a fiery
mouth--there was no making him work, so I had to leave the parters and
stand with little to do, watching the yearlings already parted, to keep
them from returning to the herd.
Presently neighbour Chapaco rode up to me. He was a good-hearted man,
well-spoken, half Indian and half Christian; but he also had another
half, and that was devil.
"What! neighbour Lucero, are you riding on a donkey or a goat, that you
remain here doing boy's work?"
I began telling him about my horse, but he did not listen; he was
looking at the parters.
"Who is that young stranger?" he asked.
"I see him to-day," I replied, "and if I see him again to-morrow then I
shall have seen him twice."
"And in what country of which I have never heard did he learn
cattle-parting?" said he.
"He rides," I answered, "like one presuming on a good horse. But he is
safe, his fellow-worker has all the danger."
"I believe you," said Chapaco. "He charges furiously and hurls the
heifer before his comrade, who has all the work to keep it from
doubling, and all the danger, for at any moment his horse may go over
it and fall. This our young stranger does knowingly, thinking that no
one here will resent it. No, Lucero, he is presuming more on his long
knife than on his good horse."
Even while we spoke, the two we were watching rode up to us. Chapaco
saluted the young man, taking off his hat, and said--"Will you take me
for a partner, friend?"
"Yes; why not, friend?" returned the other; and together the two rode
back to the herd.
Now I shall watch them, said I to myself, to see what this Indian
devil intends doing. Soon they came out of the herd driving a very
small animal. Then I knew what was coming. "May your guardian angel be
with you to avert a calamity, young stranger!" I exclaimed. Whip and
spur those two came towards me like men riding a race and not parting
cattle. Chapaco kept close to the calf, so that he had the advantage,
for his horse was well trained. At length he got a little ahead, then,
quick as lightning, he forced the calf round square before the other.
The piebald struck it full in the middle, and fell because it had to
fall. But, Saints in Heaven! why did not the rider save himself? Those
who were watching saw him throw up his feet to tread his horse's neck
and leap away; nevertheless man, horse, and calf, came down together.
They ploughed the ground for some distance, so great had been their
speed, and the man was under. When we picked him up he was senseless,
the blood flowing from his mouth. Next morning, when the sun rose and
God's light fell on the earth, he expired.
Of course there was no dancing that night. Some of the people, after
eating, went away; others remained sitting about all night, talking
in low tones, waiting for the end. A few of us were at his bedside
watching his white face and closed eyes. He breathed, and that was all.
When the sunlight came over the world he opened his eyes, and Sotelo
asked him how he did. He took no notice, but presently his lips began
to move, though they seemed to utter no sound. Sotelo bent his ear down
to listen. "Where does she live?" he asked. He could not answer--he was
dead.
"He seemed to be saying many things," Sotelo told us, "but I understood
only this--'Tell her to forgive me.... I was wrong. She loved him from
the first.... I was jealous, and hated him.... Tell Elaria not to
grieve--Anacleto will be good to her.' Alas! my friends, where shall I
find his relations to deliver this dying message to them?"
The Alcalde came that day and made a list of the dead man's
possessions, and bade Sotelo take charge of them till the relations
could be found. Then, calling all the people together, he bade each
person cut on his whip-handle and on the sheath of his knife the
mark branded on the flank of the piebald, which was in shape like
a horse-shoe with a cross inside, so that it might be shown to all
strangers, and made known through the country until the dead man's
relations should hear of it.
When a year had gone by, the Alcalde told Sotelo that, all inquiries
having failed, he could now take the piebald and the silver trappings
for himself. Sotelo would not listen to this, for he was a devout man
and coveted no person's property, dead or alive. The horse and things,
however, still remained in his charge.
Three years later I was one afternoon sitting with Sotelo, taking maté,
when his herd of dun mares were driven up. They came galloping and
neighing to the corral and ahead of them, looking like a wild horse,
was the piebald, for no person ever mounted him.
"Never do I look on that horse," I remarked, "without remembering the
fatal marking, when its master met his death."
"Now you speak of it," said he, "let me inform you that I am about
to try a new plan. That noble piebald and all those silver trappings
hanging in my room are always reproaching my conscience. Let us not
forget the young stranger we put under ground. I have had many masses
said for his soul's repose, but that does not quite satisfy me.
Somewhere there is a place where he is not forgotten. Hands there are,
perhaps, that gather wild flowers to place them with lighted candles
before the image of the Blessed Virgin; eyes there are that weep and
watch for his coming. You know how many travellers and cattle-drovers
going to Buenos Ayres from the south call for refreshment at the
_pulperia_. I intend taking the piebald and tying him every day at the
gate there. No person calling will fail to notice the horse, and some
day perhaps some traveller will recognise the brand on its flank and
will be able to tell us what department and what estancia it comes
from."
I did not believe anything would result from this, but said nothing,
not wishing to discourage him.
Next morning the piebald was tied up at the gate of the _pulperia_, at
the road side, only to be released again when night came, and this was
repeated every day for a long time. So fine an animal did not fail to
attract the attention of all strangers passing that way, still several
weeks went by and nothing was discovered. At length, one evening, just
when the sun was setting, there appeared a troop of cattle driven by
eight men. It had come a great distance, for the troop was a large
one--about nine hundred head--and they moved slowly, like cattle
that had been many days on the road. Some of the men came in for
refreshments; then the store-keeper noticed that one remained outside
leaning on the gate.
"What is the capatas doing that he remains outside?" said one of the
men.
"Evidently he has fallen in love with that piebald," said another, "for
he cannot take his eyes off it."
At length the capatas, a young man of good presence, came in and sat
down on a bench. The others were talking and laughing about the strange
things they had all been doing the day before; for they had been many
days and nights on the road, only nodding a little in their saddles,
and at length becoming delirious from want of sleep, they had begun to
act like men that are half-crazed.
"Enough of the delusions of yesterday," said the capatas, who had
been silently listening to them, "but tell me, boys, am I in the same
condition to-day?"
"Surely not!" they replied. "Thanks to those horned devils being so
tired and footsore, we all had some sleep last night."
"Very well then," said he, "now you have finished eating and drinking,
go back to the troop, but before you leave look well at that piebald
tied at the gate. He that is not a cattle-drover may ask, 'How can
my eyes deceive me?' but I know that a crazy brain makes us see many
strange things when the drowsy eyes can only be held open with the
fingers."
The men did as they were told, and when they had looked well at the
piebald, they all shouted out, "He has the brand of the estancia de
Silva on his flank, and no counter-brand--claim the horse, capatas, for
he is yours." And after that they rode away to the herd.
"My friend," said the capatas to the store-keeper, "will you explain
how you came possessed of this piebald horse?"
Then the other told him everything, even the dying words of the young
stranger, for he knew all.
The capatas bent down his head, and covering his face shed tears. Then
he said, "And you died thus, Torcuato, amongst strangers! From my
heart I have forgiven you the wrong you did me. Heaven rest your soul,
Torcuato; I cannot forget that we were once brothers. I, friend, am
that Anacleto of whom he spoke with his last breath."
Sotelo was then sent for, and when he arrived and the _pulperia_ was
closed for the night, the capatas told his story, which I will give you
in his own words, for I was also present to hear him. This is what he
told us:--
I was born on the southern frontier. My parents died when I was very
small, but Heaven had compassion on me and raised up one to shelter
me in my orphanhood. Don Loreto Silva took me to his estancia on the
Sarandi, a stream half a day's journey from Tandil, towards the setting
sun. He treated me like one of his own children, and I took the name of
Silva. He had two other children, Torcuato, who was about the same age
as myself, and his daughter, Elaria, who was younger. He was a widower
when he took charge of me, and died when I was still a youth. After
his death we moved to Tandil, where we had a house close to the little
town; for we were all minors, and the property had been left to be
equally divided between us when we should be of age. For four years we
lived happily together; then when we were of age we preferred to keep
the property undivided. I proposed that we should go and live on the
estancia, but Torcuato would not consent, liking the place where we
were living best. Finally, not being able to persuade him, I resolved
to go and attend to the estancia myself. He said that I could please
myself and that he should stay where he was with Elaria. It was only
when I told Elaria of these things that I knew how much I loved her.
She wept and implored me not to leave her.
"Why do you shed tears, Elaria?" I said; "is it because you love me?
Know, then, that I also love you with all my heart, and if you will be
mine, nothing can ever make us unhappy. Do not think that my absence
at the estancia will deprive me of this feeling which has ever been
growing up in me."
"I do love you, Anacleto," she replied, "and I have also known of your
love for a long time. But there is something in my heart which I cannot
impart to you; only I ask you, for the love you bear me, do not leave
me, and do not ask me why I say this to you."
After this appeal I could not leave her, nor did I ask her to tell me
her secret. Torcuato and I were friendly, but not as we had been before
this difference. I had no evil thoughts of him; I loved him and was
with him continually; but from the moment I announced to him that I
had changed my mind about going to the estancia, and was silent when
he demanded the reason, there was a something in him which made it
different between us. I could not open my heart to him about Elaria,
and sometimes I thought that he also had a secret which he had no
intention of sharing with me. This coldness did not, however, distress
me very much, so great was the happiness I now experienced, knowing
that I possessed Elaria's love. He was much away from the house, being
fond of amusements, and he had also begun to gamble. About three months
passed in this way, when one morning Torcuato, who was saddling his
horse to go out, said, "Will you come with me, to-day, Anacleto?"
"I do not care to go," I answered.
"Look, Anacleto," said he; "once you were always ready to accompany
me to a race or dance or cattle-marking. Why have you ceased to care
for these things? Are you growing devout before your time, or does my
company no longer please you?"
"It is best to tell him everything and have done with secrets," said I
to myself, and so replied--
"Since you ask me, Torcuato, I will answer you frankly. It is true that
I now take less pleasure than formerly in these pastimes; but you have
not guessed the reason rightly."
"What then is this reason of which you speak?"
"Since you cannot guess it," I replied, "know that it is love."
"Love for whom?" he asked quickly, and turning very pale.
"Do you need ask? Elaria," I replied.