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CHAPTER XI.
THE CHASE OF THE ÑANDUS

At the Estancia of San Julian, the hours passed away pleasantly, in talking and dreams of happiness, and Don Valentine shared the joy of his two children. Don Torribio, since the official announcement of Doña Concha's marriage, had not been seen again either at San Julian or Carmen, to the great amazement of everybody. Mercedes, gentle and simple, had become the friend, almost the sister of Concha. The frank and pealing laugh of the girls cheered the echoes of the house, and caused the capataz to grow pensive, for, at the sight of the bomberos' sister, he had felt his heart turn towards her, like the heliotrope to the sun. Don Blas, resembling a soul in purgatory, prowled round Mercedes at a distance, to look at her unperceived. Everybody at the estancia had observed the worthy man's distress, and he alone, in spite of his heavy sighs, did not know what it all meant. They ventured to ridicule him, though without wounding his feelings, and laugh at his singular ways.

One fresh November morning, shortly after sunrise, there was a great commotion at the estancia of San Julian. Several horses, held by black slaves, were stamping impatiently at the foot of the steps; servants were running backwards and forwards; and Don Blas, dressed in his best clothes, was awaiting his master's arrival.

At length Don Valentine and Don Sylvio appeared, accompanied by the two ladies. At the sight of Mercedes, the capataz felt fire rise from his heart to his face; he drew himself up, curled his moustache cordially, and gave his well-beloved a tender and respectful glance.

"Good day, Blas, my friend," Don Valentine said to him cordially. "I fancy we shall have a fine day's sport."

"I think so too, Excellency; the weather is superb."

"Have you chosen quiet horses for my daughter and her companion?"

"Oh, Excellency," the capataz answered; "I lassoed them myself on the corral. I answer for them, or my head. They are real ladies' horses – lambs."

"We are easy in mind," said Doña Concha, "for we know that Don Blas spoils us."

"Come, to horse, and let us start."

"Yes, it is a long ride from here to the plain of the Ñandus (a species of the ostrich)," said Blas, with an affectionate glance at Mercedes.

The little party, composed of twenty well-armed men, proceeded to the battery, where Patito lowered the drawbridge.

"You must double your vigilance," the capataz said to the gaucho.

"Don't be alarmed, Señor Blas. Good luck to you and the honourable company," Patito added, waving his hat in the air.

"Raise the drawbridge, Patito."

"Anyone who gets into the estancia, capataz, will be sharper than you and I."

In Patagonia, at a short distance from the rivers, all the plains are alike; sand, ever sand, and here and there some stunted bushes. Such was the road to the plain of the Ñandus.

Don Valentine had invited his future son-in-law to an ostrich hunt, and, as may be supposed, Conchita wished to be of the party.

Ostrich hunting is one of the great amusements of the Spaniards in Patagonia and the Argentine Republic, where those birds are found in great numbers.

The ostriches usually live in small families of eight or ten, scattered along the edges of marches, pools, and lakes; and they feed on fresh grass. Faithful to the native nook, they never leave the vicinity of the water, and, in the month of November, they lay their eggs, which are frequently fifty to sixty in number, in the wildest part of the desert, and only sit on them at night. When incubation is over, the bird breaks with its beak the addled eggs, which are at once covered with flies and insects, that serve as food for the young.

A characteristic feature of the manners of the ostriches is their extreme curiosity. At the estancias, where they live in a domestic state, it is not uncommon to see them stalking about among the groups and looking at people who are conversing together. On the plains their curiosity is often fatal to them, for they come up without hesitation to investigate everything that appears to them strange. Here is a rather good Indian story referring to this. The cougars lie down on the ground, raise their tail in the air, and wave it in all directions. The ostriches, attracted by the sight of this strange object, come up in their simplicity; the rest can be guessed – they become victims to the tricks of the cougars.

The hunters, after a rather quick ride for nearly two hours, reached the plain of the Ñandus. The ladies dismounted on the bank of a stream and four men, with their rifles on their hips, remained with them. The hunters exchanged their horses for others black slaves had led by the bridle for them, and then divided into two equal bands. The first, commanded by Don Valentine, entered the plain, forming a semicircle, so as to drive the game into a ravine, situated between two sand ridges. The second band, having at its head the hero of the day, Don Sylvio, formed a long line, which constituted the other moiety of the circle. This circle was gradually contracted by the advance of the horsemen, when a dozen ostriches showed themselves; but the male bird, that stood as sentry, warned the family of its danger, by a cry sharp as a boatswain's whistle. The ostriches fled rapidly, in a straight line, and without looking back.

All the hunters started after them at a gallop, and the hitherto silent plain became very animated.

The horsemen pursued the luckless birds at the full speed of their steeds, and raised clouds of fine dust as they passed. About fifteen yards behind the game, still galloping and digging their spurs into their horses' flanks, they bent forward, whirling round their heads the terrible bolas and hurling them with all their strength at the animals. If they missed their throw they stooped down on one side, without stopping, and picked up the bolas, which they threw again.

Several families of ostriches had got up, and the chase soon grew most exciting. Yells and shouts were heard all around; the bolas whistled through the air, and twined round the necks, wings, and legs of the ostriches, which, wild with terror, made a thousand feints and turns to escape their enemies, and tried, by flapping their wings, to wound the horses with the species of nail with which the extremity of their wings is armed.

Several startled horses reared, and embarrassed by three or four ostriches that got between their legs, fell, bearing their riders to the ground with them. The birds, taking advantage of the confusion, escaped to the side where other hunters were waiting for them, where they fell under a shower of bolas. Each hunter dismounted, killed his victim, cut off its wings as a trophy, and then resumed the chase with fresh ardour. Ostriches and hunters fled and galloped rapidly as the pampero.

Some fifteen ostriches strewed the plain, and Don Valentine gave the signal to retreat. The birds which had not fallen hurried with wings and feet to a place of safety. The dead were carefully picked up, for the ostrich is excellent eating, and the Americans prepare from the meat off the breast, a dish renowned for its delicacy and exquisite flavour, which they call picanilla.

The slaves went to look for the eggs, which are also highly esteemed, and obtained a large quantity of them.

Although the hunt had only lasted an hour the horses were panting; hence the return to the estancia took place but slowly. The hunters did not return till a little before sunset.

"Well, Don Valentine," asked Patito, "has anything of importance happened during my absence?"

"Nothing, Excellency!" Patito replied, "A gaucho, who said he had come from Carmen on important business, insisted on being let in to speak with Don Sylvio d'Arenal."

This gaucho, for whom Patito had been very careful not to lower the drawbridge, was his dear and honest friend Corrocho, who, it may be remembered, wanted to kill him cleverly. Corrocho had gone off in a very bad temper, without leaving any message.

"What do you think about this gaucho's arrival, Don Sylvio?" Don Valentine asked, when they were comfortably seated in the drawing room.

"It does not surprise me," Sylvio answered.

"My own house is being got ready at Carmen, and, no doubt, my orders are wanted."

"That is possible."

"I am hurrying on the workmen, father. I am so eager to be married that I fear lest my happiness should slip from my grasp," said Don Sylvio.

"And I too," said Doña Concha, her face becoming purple.

"There is a little article for you," said Don Valentine. "The hearts of girls are at work when you least expect it. Patience, miss, for three days longer."

"My good father!" Conchita cried, as she hid her face in Don Valentine's bosom, that the tears of joy might not be seen.

"Oh! In that case I will start tomorrow for Carmen, especially as I am awaiting from Buenos Aires papers indispensable for our marriage – our happiness," Don Sylvio added, looking at his well beloved.

"I hope," she said, "you will start very early, so as to return in the morning of the next day."

"I shall be here tomorrow evening. Can I remain long away from you, my dear Conchita?"

"No, Don Sylvio, no. I implore you. I do not wish you to return at night."

"Why not?" the young man asked, slightly piqued at this remark.

"I really cannot tell you; but I feel frightened at the thought of your crossing the Pampa alone and by night."

"Oh!" she continued, seeing Don Sylvio about to speak, "I know that you are brave, almost too brave; but gaucho bandits abound in the plain. Do not expose a life which is so dear to me, which is no longer your own, Sylvio; and listen to the warnings of a heart which is no longer mine."

"Thanks, Conchita. Still I have no one to fear in this country, where I am a stranger. Moreover, I never leave the estancia without looking like a theatrical bandit, so covered am I with weapons."

"No matter," Doña Concha continued; "if you love me – "

"If I love you!" he interrupted passionately.

"If you love me, you must take pity on my anxiety, and – obey me."

"Come, come!" said Don Valentine, with a laugh. "On my soul you are mad, Conchita, and your romances have turned your head. You only dream of brigands, ambuscades, and treachery."

"What would you have, father? Is it my fault? The foreboding of a coming misfortune agitates me, and I wish to leave nothing to chance."

"Do not cry, my darling child," the father said to Concha, as she burst into tears. "Kiss me. I was wrong. Your betrothed and myself will do all you please. Does that satisfy you?"

"Do you really mean it?" Doña Concha asked, smiling through her tears.

"Oh, señorita!" Sylvio exclaimed in a tone of tender reproach.

"You render me perfectly happy. I only ask one thing. Let Blas Salazar accompany you."

"As you please."

"Do you promise it?"

"On my honour."

"Then," Don Valentine said, gaily, "all is for the best, little maid. I suspect, Conchita, that you are somewhat jealous, and afraid of losing Sylvio."

"Perhaps so," she said, maliciously.

"Such things have happened," her father said, teasingly. "So, Don Sylvio, you intend starting tomorrow morning?"

"At sunrise, in order to avoid the great heat; and, as I do not hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again before I go, I will take leave of you at once."

"Kiss one another, children! When persons part, especially if they love, they ought to embrace as if they were never going to meet again in this world."

"Really, father," said Conchita, "you have such ideas – "

"I was only in fun, my dear child."

"Pleasant journey, Don Sylvio; and we shall see you again the day after tomorrow."

"You may be sure of that."

The next morning at sunrise, Don Sylvio d'Arenal left the estancia. At the bottom of the steps the capataz and two slaves were waiting for him. Involuntarily the young man, before starting, turned his head towards the window of his beloved which suddenly opened.

"Farewell," said Doña Concha, with some emotion in her voice.

"Farewell," Sylvio replied, wafting her a kiss, "till we meet again."

"That is true," she said. "We shall soon meet again."

The capataz gave a heavy sigh; he was, doubtless thinking of Mercedes, and saying to himself that Don Sylvio was a very lucky man.

Don Sylvio, whose heart was contracted, though he knew not the cause, gave a last signal to his betrothed, and soon disappeared among the trees. Doña Concha followed him for a long time with her eyes, for a longer time with her heart; and soon as she was alone, she felt sadness assail her, and she wept and sobbed bitterly.

"O Heaven!" she exclaimed, "Protect him."

CHAPTER XII.
THE TOLDERÍA

On the banks of the Rio Negro, about five and twenty leagues from Carmen, stood the toldería, or village of the Pass of the Guanacos.

This toldería, a simple temporary encampment, like all the Indian villages, whose nomadic manners do not agree with fixed settlements, was composed of about one hundred chozas, or cabins irregularly grouped one after the other.

Each choza was formed of ten stakes fixed in the ground, four or five feet high at the sides, and six to seven in the centre, with an opening to the east, so that the owner of the choza might in the morning throw water in the face of the rising sun, a ceremony by which the Indians implore Gualichu not to injure their families during the course of the day. These chozas were covered with horses' hides sewn together, and always open at the top to leave a free escape for the smoke of the fires in the interior, which fires equal in number the wives of the occupant, as each squaw must have a fire of her own. The leather that served as the exterior wall was carefully dressed and painted of different colours, and these paintings – rendered the general appearance of the toldería more cheerful.

In front of the entrance of the chozas, the lances of the warriors were fixed in the ground. These lances, light and made of flexible bamboos, sixteen to eighteen feet in length, and armed at their extremity with a spear a foot long forged by the Indians themselves, grow in the mountains of Chili, near Valdivia.

The liveliest joy appeared to prevail in the toldería. In some chozas Indian women, provided with spindles handed down from the Incas, were winding the wool of their flocks; in others, women were weaving their ponchos, so renowned for their delicacy and perfection of work, at looms of primitive simplicity which are another inheritance from the Incas.

The young men of the tribe, assembled at the centre of the toldería in a large square, were playing at pilma, a singular game of which the Aucas are very fond. The players trace a large circle on the ground, which they enter and range themselves in two rows facing each other. The champions of each party holding a ball full of air in their hands, one side on the right, the other on the left hand, throw these balls before them. They raise the left leg, catch the projectile in their hand and throw it at the adversary, whom they must hit on the body under penalty of losing one point. This produces a thousand strange contortions on the part of the opponent, who stoops down or gives a spring to avoid being hit. If the ball leaves the circle, the first player loses two points, and runs after it. If, on the contrary, the second player is hit, he must catch the ball and throw it at his adversary, whom he is bound to hit or lose a point. The next player on the opposite side begins the game again, and so on to the end. We can understand what bursts of laughter greet the grotesque postures of the players.

Other Indians of a riper age were gravely playing a sort of game at cards, with squares of leather clumsily illumined with figures of different animals.

In a choza, larger and better painted than the rest, which was the abode of the carasken or first chief, whose lances, covered at the end with red stained leather, were the distinctive mark of power, three men were sitting over a decaying fire, and talking regardless of the noises outside. These men were Nocobotha, Pincheira, and Churlakin, one of the principal Ulmens of the hills, whose squaw had given birth that same morning to a son, which was the cause of the great rejoicings among the Indians.

Churlakin received the orders of the great chief for the ceremonies usual on such occasions, bowed respectfully and left the choza, which he soon re-entered, followed by his wives and all his friends, one of whom held the infant in his arms.

Nocobotha placed himself between Pincheira and Churlakin, at the head of the party, and proceeded toward the Rio Negro. The newborn babe, wrapped in woollen swaddling clothes, was plunged into the water, and then they returned in the same order to Churlakin's choza, in front of which lay a plump filly, thrown down and with its four feet secured.

A poncho was spread under the animal's belly, and the relations and friends deposited on it, one after the other, the presents intended for the child, consisting of spurs, weapons, and clothes. Nocobotha, who had consented to act as godfather, placed the infant in the midst of the presents; and Churlakin laid open the filly's flanks, tore out its heart and handed it while still warm to Nocobotha, who employed it to make a cross on the infant's forehead, while saying, "Your name will be Churlakinkco." The father took the child back, and the chief, raising the bleeding heart, said thrice in a loud voice, "Let him live! Let him live! Let him live!" Then he recommended the child to Gualichu, the genius of evil, praying him to render him brave and eloquent, and terminated the enunciation of his vows with the words, "Above all, let him never become a slave."

When the ceremony was ended, the filly was cut into pieces, large fires were kindled, and all the relations and friends began a feast which would last until the immolated filly had entirely disappeared.

Churlakin prepared to sit down and eat like his guests, but at a sign from Nocobotha, he followed the great chief into his choza, where they resumed their seats at the fire, Pincheira joining them. Upon a signal from Nocobotha the squaws went out, and after a short reflection he began to say —

"Brothers, you are my confidants, and my heart is laid open before you like chirimoya, to enable you to see my most secret thoughts. You were perhaps surprised tonight at finding that I did not count you among the chiefs selected to act under my orders."

The two chiefs gave a nod of denial.

"You neither doubted my friendship nor supposed that I had withdrawn my confidence from you? Far from it. I reserve you two for more important enterprises, which require sure and well-tried men. You, Churlakin, will mount without delay, here is the quipu."

And he handed the Ulmen a small piece of willow wood, ten inches long and four wide, split down the centre and holding a human finger. This piece of wood, covered with thread, was fringed with red, blue, black, and white wool. Churlakin received the quipu respectfully.

"Churlakin," Nocobotha continued, "you will serve me as casqui (herald), not to the Patagonian natives of the Pampas, whose caraskens, Ulmens and Apo-Ulmens were present at the solemn meeting at the tree of Gualichu, although you may communicate with them on your road; but I send you specially to the nations and tribes scattered far away, and living in the woods, such as the Ranqueles, the Guerandis, the Moluches, and the Pecunches, to whom you will present the quipu. Turning back thence to the desert, you will visit the Charruas, Bocobis, Tebas, and Guaramis, who can place about twenty-five thousand warriors under arms. The task is difficult and delicate, and that is why I entrust it to you, whom I regard as my second self."

"My brother's mind can be at rest," Churlakin said, "I shall succeed."

"Good," Nocobotha continued, "I have made nineteen knots on the black wool to indicate that my brother left my side on the nineteenth day of the moon; on the white wool twenty-seven knots, to signify that in twenty-seven days the warriors will assemble under arms on the Island of Ghole-Isechel, at the fork of the Rio Negro. The chiefs who consent to join us will make a knot on the blood red wool, and those who refuse will knot the red and blue wool together. Has my brother understood?"

"Yes," Churlakin answered. "When must I start?"

"At once, for time presses."

"In ten minutes I shall be far from the village," said Churlakin, as he bowed to the two chiefs and left the choza.

"And now it is our turn," Nocobotha said with a friendly accent, when he found himself alone with Pincheira.

"I am listening."

The superior chief, then putting off the composed manner and language of an Ulmen, employed the European style with surprising readiness, and laying aside the Indian dialect, addressed the Chilian officer in the purest Castilian, spoken from Cape Horn to Magellan.

"My dear Pincheira," he said to him, "during the two years since my return from Europe, I have attached to myself most of the Carmen gauchos – utter scoundrels, I allow – and bandits exiled from Buenos Aires; but I can count on them, and they are devoted to me. These men only know me by the name of Don Torribio Carvajal."

"I was aware of the fact," Pincheira said.

"Ah!" Nocobotha remarked, darting a glance of suspicion at the Chilian.

"Everything is known on the Pampa."

"In a word," Nocobotha continued, "the hour has arrived when I must reap what I have sown among these bandits, who will be useful to us against their countrymen, through their knowledge of the Spanish tactics, and their skill in the use of firearms. Reasons, which would take me too long to explain, prevent me from turning my attention to these gauchos, so you will introduce yourself to them in my name. This diamond," he added, drawing a ring from his finger, "will be your passport; they are warned, and if you show it to them they will obey you as myself. They assemble at a low pulquería in the Población del Sur, at Carmen."

"I know it well. What am I to do with the fellows?"

"A very simple matter. Every day, a devoted man, Panchito by name, will transmit you my orders, and inform you of what is going on among us. Your duty will be to hold these bandits in readiness, and on a day I shall indicate to you, you will stir up a revolt in Carmen. This revolt will give us time to act outside, while a part of your people are scouring the Pampas, and freeing us, if possible, from those infernal bomberos, who watch our manoeuvres, and are almost as crafty as our Indians."

"Confound it," said Pincheira, "that is a tough job!"

"You will succeed, if not through friendship for me, at least through hatred of the Spaniards."

"Not to deceive your expectations, I will do more than man can do."

"I know it, and thank you, my dear Pincheira. But you must be prudent and skilful! Our plans are suspected, and we are watched. To employ an Indian metaphor, I entrust to you a mole's job. You must dig a mine under Carmen, which will blow them all up when it explodes."

"Caray," said Pincheira, as he warmly pressed Nocobotha's hand, "you are one of the men I like. Trust to me, to my friendship, and, above all, to my hatred."

"We shall all be avenged," Nocobotha added. "May Satan hear you!"

"To work, then! But, in the first place, lay aside your uniform as a Chilian officer. Disguise yourself as well as you can, for your face is familiar at Carmen."

"Yes," Pincheira replied, "and in an hour you will not recognize me yourself. I will dress myself as a gaucho, for that will not be noticed. Farewell."

"One word yet."

"Say it."

"The man I send to you will arrange a fresh meeting place for every night in order to foil the spies."

"All right."

"Good-bye."

Pincheira left the choza; and the Indian chief looked after him for a moment.

"Go," he said, "ferocious brute, to whom I throw a people as prey. Go! Miserable instrument of projects whose greatness you do not understand," he added, as he looked at the Indians, "they are making holiday, playing like children, and unsuspicious that I am about, to make them free. But it is time for me to think of my own vengeance."

And he quitted the choza, leapt on a horse, which an Indian held by the bridle, and started at a gallop on the road to Carmen.

At the end of an hour he stopped on the banks of the Rio Negro, dismounted, assured himself by a glance that he was alone, took off a leathern valise fastened to his saddle, and entered a natural grotto a few paces distant. There he quickly doffed his Indian garb, dressed in handsome European attire, and set out again.

It was no longer Nocobotha, the supreme chief of the Indian nations, but Don Torribio Carvajal, the mysterious Spaniard. His pace was also prudently altered, and his horse carried him at a gentle trot toward Carmen.

On coming near the spot where, on the previous evening, the bomberos had halted with their sister to hold a consultation, he dismounted again, sat down on the grass, and took from a splendid cigar case made of plaited Panama straw, a cigar, which he lit with the apparent tranquillity of a tourist who is resting in the shade, and is admiring the beauty of the scenery.

During this time the footfall of several horses disturbed the solitude of the Pampa, and a hoarse voice struck up an Indian song well known on this border: —

"I have lost my Neculantey in the country of Tilqui. Oh! Ye damp plains, which have changed him into shadows and flies."

"Oh, oh! the song of the Maukawis already!" Don Torribio said in a loud voice.

"Does not the note of the Maukawis announce sunrise?" the voice asked.

"You are right, Panchito," Don Torribio replied, "we are alone, so you can come, as well as your comrade, who, I suppose, is your friend Corrocho."

"You have guessed right, Excellency," said Corrocho, as he came from behind a sandhill.

"Faithful to our word," said Panchito, "we have arrived at the spot and hour appointed."

"That is well, my good fellows, and thanks. Come here, but remain on horseback. Are you both devoted to me?"

"To the last drop of our blood, Excellency," the two gauchos said.

"And you do not despise money?"

"Money can only injure those who have none," the sententious Panchito remarked.

"When it is honourably gained," Corrocho added, with an ape-like grimace.

"Of course, of course," the young man said, "it is a matter of fifty ounces."