Chapter Thirty.
The “Sacred Town.”
While the pursuing party is peacefully reposing upon the stalagmites of the cavern, that pursued reaches its destination – the “Sacred town” of the Tovas.
The tolderia, so named, stands upon a level plain, near the shore of a large and beautiful lake, whose numerous low-lying islets, covered with a thick growth of the moriché, have the appearance of palm-groves growing direct out of the water itself.
A belt of the same stately trees borders the lake all around, broken here and there by projecting headlands; while away over the adjacent campo, on the higher and drier ground, are seen palms of other and different species, both fan-leaved and pinnate, growing in copses or larger “montes,” with evergreen shrubs and trees of deciduous foliage interspersed.
At some three or four hundred yards from the lake’s edge, a high hill rises abruptly above the plain – the only elevation within many miles. Thus isolated, it is visible from afar, and forms a conspicuous feature of the landscape; all the more remarkable on account of its singular shape, which is the frustrum of a cone. Though its sides are of steep pitch, they are thickly wooded to the summit; trees of large size standing upon its table-like top. But something more than trees stand there; the scaffolds upon which are laid the bodies of the Tovas dead; hundreds of which may be seen in all stages of decay, or shrivelled and desiccated by the dry winds and sun of the Chaco till they resemble Egyptian mummies. For it is the “Cemetery Hill,” a spot hallowed in the hearts of these Indians, and so giving the title of “Sacred” to this particular place, as the town adjacent to it. The latter is situated just under the hill, between its base and the shore of the lake. No grand city, as might be supposed from such a high-sounding name, but simply a collection of palm and bamboo toldos, or huts, scattered about without any design or order; each owner having been left free to select the site of his frail tenement, since among the Tovas municipal regulations are of the simplest and most primitive character. True, some dwellings, grander and more pretentious than the common, are grouped around an open space; in the centre of which is one much larger than any of the others, its dimensions equalling a dozen of them. This is not a dwelling, however, but the Malocca, or House of Parliament. Perhaps, with greater propriety, it might be called “Congress Chamber,” since, as already hinted at, the polity of the Tovas tribe is rather republican than monarchical.
Strange, as sad, that in this republic of redskins, and so-called savages, should exist the same political contradiction as among some other republican communities, having the name of civilised. For although themselves individually free, the Tovas Indians do not believe in the doctrine that all men should be so; or, at all events, they do not act up to it. Instead, their practice is the very opposite, as shown by their keeping numbers of slaves. Of these they have hundreds, most of them being Indians of other tribes, their enemies, whom they have made captive in battle. But to the Tovas master it signifies little what be the colour of his bondman’s skin, whether white or red; and many of the former, women as well as men, may be seen doing drudgery in this same Sacred town – its hewers of wood and drawers of water. These are also captives, the spoil of predatory incursions across the Salado into the settlements of Santiago, Salto, and Tucuman.
Most of these slaves, employed in the care of cattle, live apart from their masters, in a sort of suburb, where the dwellings are of a less permanent character than the ordinary toldos, besides being differently constructed. They more resemble the tents, or wigwams, of the North-American Indians; being simply a number of poles set in a circle, and tied together at the tops; the hides of horses covering them, instead of the buffalo skins which serve a similar purpose on the northern prairies.
It may seem strange that captives with white skins, thus left unguarded, do not make their escape. But no; those so kept do not even seek or desire it. Long in captivity, they have become “Indianised,” lost all aspirations for liberty, and grown contented with their lot; for the Tovas are not hard taskmasters.
On the night of that same day, when the tormenta overtook them, Aguara and his party approach the Sacred town, which is about twenty miles from the edge of the salitral, where the trail parts from the latter, going westward. The plain between is no more of saline or sterile character; but, as on the other side, showing a luxuriant vegetation, with the same picturesque disposal of palm-groves and other tropical trees.
The hour is late – nigh to midnight – as the captive train passes under the shadow of the Cemetery Hill, making round to where the tolderia stands; for both lake and town are on the west side of the hill.
Well may the young cacique feel something of fear, his face showing it, as he glances up to that elevated spot where he so late laid the corpse of his father. Were that father living, he, the son, would not be passing there with the daughter of Ludwig Halberger as his captive. Even as it is, he can fancy the spirit of the deceased cacique hovering over the hill, and looking frowningly, reproachfully, down upon him!
As if to escape from such imaginary frowns, he gives the lash to his horse; and setting the animal into a gallop, rides on alone – having first placed the captive under the charge of one of his followers.
On reaching the tolderia, however, he does not go direct to his own dwelling, which is the largest of those adjacent to the malocca. Nor yet enters he among the toldos; but, instead, makes a wide circuit around them, taking care not to awake those sleeping within. The place for which he is making is a sort of half hut, half cave, close in to the base of the hill, with trees overshadowing, and a rocky background of cliff.
Arrived in front of this solitary dwelling, he dismounts, and, drawing aside the horse’s skin which serves as a swing door, calls out: —
“Shebotha!”
Presently a woman appears in the opening – if woman she could be called. For it is a hag of most repulsive appearance; her face half hidden by a tangle of long hair, black, despite old age indicated by a skin shrivelled and wrinkled as that of a chameleon. Add to this a pair of dark grey eyes, deep sunken in their sockets, for all gleaming brilliantly, and you have the countenance of Shebotha – sorceress of the Tovas tribe – one of cast as sinister as ever presented itself in a doorway.
She speaks not a word in answer to the friendly salutation of the cacique; but stands silent in bent, obeisant attitude, with her skinny arms crossed over her breast, as it waiting to hear what he would further say. His words are by way of command:
“Shebotha! I’ve brought back with me a captive – a young girl of the palefaces. You must take charge of her, and keep her here in your hut. She’s not yet come up, but will presently. So get things ready to receive her.”
Shebotha but bends lower, with an inclination of the head, to imply that his instructions will be attended to. Then he adds —
“No one must see, or converse with her; at least, not for a time. And you mustn’t admit any one inside your toldo, except the witless white creature, your slave. About him it don’t signify. But keep out all others, as I know you can. You understand me, Shebotha?”
She makes answer in the affirmative, but, as before, only by a nod.
“Enough!” is the young chief’s satisfied rejoinder, as he vaults back upon his horse, and rides off to meet the captive train, which he knows must be now near.
That night, as for other nights and days succeeding, Francesca Halberger has this horrid hag for a hostess, or rather the keeper of her prison; since the unhappy girl is in reality kept and guarded as a prisoner.
Chapter Thirty One.
Taste after Powder
Long before daylight penetrates the interior of the cavern, or shows its first streak on the sky outside, the trackers are up and active.
A hasty breakfast is prepared; but, as the mutton bone is now quite bare, they have to fall back on another kind of flesh-meat, which the provident Caspar has brought along. This is charqui, or as it is called by English-speaking people “jerked beef;” in all likelihood a sailor’s pseudonym, due to some slight resemblance, between the English word “jerked,” and the Guarani Indian one charqui, as pronounced by South American people.
Charqui is simply beef cut into long, thin strips, then hung over a rope or rail, and exposed to a hot sun – in the absence of this, to a fire – till the juices are thoroughly dried out of it. Thus prepared, it will keep for weeks, indeed months.
The reason for so preserving it, is the scarcity of salt, which in the districts where charqui prevails, is difficult to be got at, and, in consequence, dear. Most of the beef imported from the La Plata, under the name of “jerked beef,” is not charqui, but simply meat cured with salt. Beef is preserved by a similar process throughout most parts of Spanish America, as in Mexico, and California, and for the same reason; but in these countries it is termed tasajo, and sometimes cecina.
Charqui is by no means a dainty viand; not nice either to the nose or palate. Those portions of it which have not had sufficient sun in the drying process, become tainted, and the odour is anything but agreeable. For all, it serves a purpose in those countries where salt is a scarce commodity; and cooked – as all Spanish Americans cook it – with a plentiful seasoning of onions, garlic, and chili, the “gamey” flavour ceases to be perceptible. Above all, it is a boon to the traveller who has a long journey to make through the uninhabited wilderness, with no inns nor post-houses at which he may replenish his spent stock of provisions. Being dry, firm, and light, it can be conveniently carried in haversack, or saddle-bags.
By Caspar’s foresight, there is a packet of it in Ludwig’s alparejas, where all the other provisions are stowed; and a piece cut from one of the strips, about the length of a Bologna sausage, makes breakfast for all three. Of the Paraguay tea they have a good store, the yerba being a commodity which packs in small space.
Their morning meal is dismissed with slight ceremony; and soon as eaten, they recaparison their horses; then leading them out of the cavern, mount, and are off. As the arroyo has long since shrunk to its ordinary level, and the path along the base of the bluff is dry as when trodden by them in their rush for shelter from the storm, they have no difficulty in getting out. So on they ride up the steep acclivity to the cliff’s crest; which last is on a level with the pampa itself.
But on reaching it, a sight meets their eyes – it is now daylight – causing a surprise to Ludwig and Cypriano; but to Gaspar something more – something akin to dismay. For the sage gaucho mentally sees further than either of his less experienced companions; and that now observed by him gives token of a new trouble in store for them. The plain is no longer a green grassy savanna, as when they galloped across it on the afternoon preceding, but a smooth expanse, dark brown in colour, its surface glittering under the red rays of the rising sun, whose disc is as yet but half visible above the horizon!
“Santos Dios!” exclaims the gaucho, as he sits in his saddle, contemplating the transformation, to him no mystery. “I thought it would be so.”
“How very strange!” remarks Ludwig.
“Not at all strange, señorito; but just as it should be, and as we might have expected.”
“But what has caused it?”
“Oh, cousin,” answered Cypriano, who now comprehends all. “Can’t you see? I do.”
“See what?”
“Why, that the dust has settled down over the plain; and the rain coming after, has converted it into mud.”
“Quite right, Señor Cypriano,” interposes Gaspar; “but that isn’t the worst of it.”
Both turn their eyes upon him, wondering what worse he can allude to. Cypriano interrogates: —
“Is it some new danger, Gaspar?”
“Not exactly a danger, but almost as bad; a likelihood of our being again delayed.”
“But how?”
“We’ll no longer have track or trace to guide us, if this abominable sludge extend to the river; as I daresay it does. There we’ll find the trail blind as an owl at noontide. As you see, the thing’s nearly an inch thick all over the ground. ’Twould smother up the wheel-ruts of a loaded carreta.”
His words, clearly understood by both his young companions, cause them renewed uneasiness. For they can reason, that if the trail be obliterated, their chances of being able to follow the route taken by the abductors will be reduced to simple guessing; and what hope would there be searching that way over the limitless wilderness of the Chaco?
“Well?” says Gaspar, after they had remained for some moments gazing over the cheerless expanse which extends to the very verge of their vision, “it won’t serve any good purpose, our loitering here. We may as well push on to the river, and there learn the worst – if worst it’s to be. Vamonos!”
With this, the Spanish synonym for “Come along!” the gaucho gives his horse a dig in the ribs, with spur rowels of six inches diameter, and starts off at a swinging pace, the others after.
And now side by side go all three, splashing and spattering through the mortar-like mud, which, flung up in flakes by their horses’ hoofs, is scattered afar in every direction.
Half an hour of quick cantering brings them back upon the Pilcomayo’s bank; not where they had parted from it, but higher up, near the mouth of the arroyo. For Gaspar did not deem it necessary to return to that prophetic tree, whose forecast has proved so unfailing. To have gone back thither would have been a roundabout of several miles, since they had made a cross-cut to reach the cavern; and as on the way they had seen nothing of the Indian trail, it must needs have continued up the river.
But now, having reached this, they cannot tell; for here, as on all the plain over which they have passed, is spread the same coating of half-dried dirt, fast becoming drier and firmer as the ascending tropical sun, with strengthened intensity, pours his hot beams upon it. It has smothered up the Indian’s trail as completely as it snow several inches deep lay upon it. No track there, no sign to show, that either horses or men ever passed up the Pilcomayo’s bank.
“Caspita!” exclaims the gaucho, in spiteful tone. “It is as I anticipated; blind as an old mule with a tapojo over its eyes. May the fiends take that tormenta!”
Chapter Thirty Two.
Stopped by a “Riacho.”
For a time the trackers remain at halt, but without forsaking their saddles, pondering upon what course they should pursue, or rather, what direction they ought to take.
Only a short while are they undecided. It seems good as certain that the Indians have kept to the river, for some distance further on, at all events. Therefore, it will be time enough to enter upon a more prolonged deliberation, when they come to a point where this certainty ceases. Thus reflecting, they start off afresh, with their horses’ heads as before.
Going at good speed as ever, in a few minutes they arrive at the confluence of the arroyo with the greater river; the former here running between banks less “bluffy” than above, where it passes the cavern. Still they are of sufficient elevation to make a sharp descent towards the channel of the stream, and a corresponding ascent on its opposite side. But instead of an impediment, the trackers find this an advantage; giving them evidence that the Indians have gone across the arroyo. For their horses’ tracks are distinctly traceable on the steep faces of both banks; the dust either not having settled there, or been washed off by the rain which fell after.
Without difficulty they themselves ride across; for the rapid-running stream has returned to its ordinary dimensions, and is now quite shallow, with a firm gravelly bed. Once on its western side, however, and up to the level of the campo beyond, they are again at fault; in fact, have reached the point spoken of where all certainty is at an end. Far as they can see before them, the surface is smeared with mud, just as behind, and no sign of a trail visible anywhere. Like enough the Indians have still continued on along the river, but that is by no means sure. They may have turned up the arroyo, or struck off across the pampa, on some route known to them, and perhaps leading more direct to whatever may be their destination.
It is all conjecture now; and upon this they must rely. But the weight of probability is in favour of the pursued party having kept to the river, and Gaspar is of this opinion. After riding some distance up the western bank of the arroyo, and seeing no trail or track there, he again returns to where they had crossed, saying: —
“I think we may safely stick to the river. I’m acquainted with its course for at least thirty leagues further up. At about half that distance from here it makes a big elbow, and just there, I remember, an old Indian path strikes off from it, to cross a traveria. Ha! that’s good as sure to be the route these redskins have taken. For now, I think of it, the path was a big, broad road, and must have been much-travelled by Indians of some kind or other. So, muchachos; we can’t do better than keep on to where it parts from the water’s edge. Possibly on the traveria, which chances to be a salitral as well, we may find the ground clear of this detestable stuff, and once more hit off the rastro of these murderous robbers.”
His young companions, altogether guided by his counsels, of course offer no objection; and off they again go up the bank of the broad deep river.
Nor less swiftly do they speed, but fast as ever. For they are not impeded by the necessity of constantly keeping their eyes upon the earth, to see if there be hoof-marks on it. There are none; or if any, they are not distinguishable through the thick stratum of slime spread over all the surface. But although going at a gallop, they do not get over much ground; being every now and then compelled to pull up – meeting obstructions they had not reckoned upon. These in the shape of numerous little streamlets, flowing into the river, most of them still in freshet from the late rain. One after another they ford them, none being so deep as to call for swimming. But they at length come upon one of greater depth and breadth than any yet passed, and with banks of such a character as to bring them to a dead stop, with the necessity of considering whether it can be crossed at all. For it is a watercourse of the special kind called riachos, resembling the bayous of Louisiana, whose sluggish currents run in either direction, according to the season of the year, whether it be flood-time or during the intervals of drought.
At a glance, Gaspar perceives that the one now barring their onward progress is too deep to be waded; and if it be possible to pass over it, this must be by swimming. Little would they regard that, nor any more would their animals; since the pampas horse can swim like an otter, or capivara. But, unfortunately, this particular riacho is of a kind which forbids even their swimming it; as almost at the same glance, the gaucho observes, with a grunt expressing his discontent. On the stream’s further shore, the bank, instead of being on a level with the water surface, or gently shelving away from it, rises abruptly to a height of nigh six feet, with no break, far as can be seen, either upward or downward. Any attempt to swim a horse to the other side, would result in his being penned up, as within the lock-gates of a canal!
It is plainly impossible for them to cross over there; and, without waiting to reflect further, the gaucho so pronounces it; saying to the others, who have remained silently watching him: —
“Well, we’ve got over a good many streams in our morning’s ride, but this one beats us. We can’t set foot on the other side – not here, at all events.”
“Why?” demands Cypriano.
“Because, as you can see, señorito, that water’s too deep for wading.”
“But what of that? We can swim it, can’t we?”
“True, we could; all that and more, so far as the swimming goes. But once in there, how are we to get out again? Look at yonder bank. Straight up as a wall, and so smooth a cat couldn’t climb it, much less our horses; and no more ourselves. If ’twere a matter of wading we might; but, as I can see, all along yonder edge it’s just as deep as in mid-stream; and failing to get out, we’d have to keep on plunging about, possibly in the end to go under. Carramba! we mustn’t attempt to make a crossing here.”
“Where then?” demands Cypriano, in torture at this fresh delay, which may last he knows not how long.
“Well,” rejoins the gaucho, reflectingly, “I think I know of a place where we may manage it. There’s a ford which can’t be very far from this; but whether it’s above or below, for the life of me I can’t tell, everything’s so changed by that detestable tormenta, and the ugly coat of plaster it has laid over the plain! Let me see,” he adds, alternately turning his eyes up stream and down, “I fancy it must be above; and now I recollect there was a tall tree, a quebracha, not far from the ford. Ha!” he exclaims, suddenly catching sight of it, “there’s the bit of timber itself! I can tell it by that broken branch on the left side. You see that, don’t you, hijos mios?”
They do see the top of a solitary tree with one branch broken off, rising above the plain at about two miles’ distance; and they can tell it to be the well-known species called quebracha– an abbreviation of quebrahacha, or “axe-breaker,” so named from the hardness of its wood.
“Whether it be by wading or swimming,” Gaspar remarks in continuance, “we’ll get over the riacho up yonder, not far from that tree. So, let’s on to it, señoritos!”
Without another word, they all wheel their horses about, and move off in the direction of the quebracha.