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Chapter Thirty Nine.
The Avestruz

Soon after the trio of trackers have re-entered the algarobia grove, a frizzling, sputtering noise is heard therein; while an appetising odour spreads all around, borne afar on the balmy breeze of the morning. Both the sound and the smell proceed from some choice tit-bits which Gaspar has taken from the body of the great bird – chiefly slices from the thigh bone and breast.

By the time Cypriano has doffed the masquerading dress, and resumed his proper travelling costume, the cooking is done, and breakfast declared ready.

While eating it, by way of accompaniment they naturally converse about the bird. Not the particular one which exclusively forms their repast, but of ostriches in general, and more especially those of South America commonly called rheas; though to the gauchos better known by the name avestruz.

Both the boys are pretty well acquainted with these birds and their habits; Cypriano having several times taken part in their chase; while Ludwig best knows them in a scientific sense. Still there are many of their ways, and strange ones, of which neither one nor the other has ever heard, but that Gaspar has been witness to with his own eyes. It is the gaucho, therefore, who imparts most of the information, the others being little more than listeners.

“Though the thing isn’t generally known,” he says, “there are several distinct kinds of avestruz in different parts of the country. Of myself I’ve seen three. First, a very small sort, not much bigger than a turkey cock. It’s darker coloured than the kind we’re eating, with shorter legs and feathered further down. It don’t lay so many eggs either; but, strange to say, they are almost as big as those of the other sort, only differently shaped, and with a tinge of blue on the shell. It I saw when I once went on an expedition with the Buenos Ayres army down south to the plains of Patagonia. There the climate is much colder than up here, and the avestruz petise, as the bird’s called, seems to like that best; since it’s never seen on the warm pampas farther north. On the other hand, the sort we have here, which is the biggest of all, never strays down to these very cold districts, but goes all over the Chaco country, where it’s hottest. The third kind I’ve seen is in bulk about midways between the two; but it’s a very rare bird, and I believe not known to the learned naturalistas. Isn’t that so, Señor Ludwig?”

“Indeed, yes. I never heard of a third species, though father has told me of the avestruz petise; which, as you say, is only found far south, ranging from the Rio Negro to the Straits of Magellan.”

“Well,” continues Gaspar, resuming his account, “I’m sure of there being there sorts; though I don’t know much about the other two, only this we’ve met here. Of them I ought to know a good deal, having hunted them as often as there are days in the year. One thing there’s been no end of disputation about; and that is whether several hens lay their eggs in the same nest. Now, I can say for certain they do. I’ve seen several go to the same nest, one after the other, and on the same day too. What should take them there if not to lay their eggs? True, they drop them about everywhere, in a very loose, careless way; as can be told by their being seen scattered all over the campo, and far from any nest. What this is for I cannot myself tell; though I’ve heard some gauchos say that these stray eggs —huachos we call them – are laid here and there for the young birds to feed upon. But that can’t be so, since the huachos are never found pecked or broken, but always whole, whether they be fresh or addled. I think it’s more likely that the hens drop these stray eggs because they have no nest in which to put them; that where they have laid their others being already full. Besides, there is the cock sitting upon it; who won’t let any of them come near, once he has taken to hatching?”

“Is it true, then, that the cock does the hatching?” interrogates Ludwig.

“Quite true – all of it; and he’s got a good many eggs to cover. I’ve counted over fifty in one nest. That of itself shows no single hen could have laid them; for, as it would take her a long time, the first ones would be rotten before the last came. As for the cock when sitting, he’s as cross as an old duck doing the same, but ten times more dangerous to go near. I’ve known of a gaucho getting a kick from one he’d started from off the nest, almost as hard as if it had been given by a mule. And to hear them hiss then! Ah! that was nothing we’ve just heard from this fellow.”

“Is it true they can swim, Gaspar?” again questions Ludwig.

“Like swans. No, I’m wrong there, for nothing can be more unlike. So far as the swimming goes, the avestruz can do it, but in quite a different way from swans. They swim with their bodies under water, and only their shoulders, with the head and neck, above. It’s a funny sight to see a flock of them crossing one of the big rivers; and scores of times I’ve been eye-witness to that bit of comicality. Carramba! a curious bird, the avestruz is altogether, and a useful one, as we’ve now good reason to know. So, señoritos, let us be thankful to Providence that there’s such a plenty of them on these pampas, and above all, for guiding the steps of this fine specimen, as to place it so directly and opportunely in our way.”

The discourse about ostriches is brought to a close with the breakfast upon that which had led to it; both, along with the incident of the bird’s capture, having occupied little more time than is here taken in telling of them. So little, indeed, that the sun’s disc is not yet all above the horizon, when, having completed the repast, the trackers start up from their seats around the fire, and proceed to caparisoning their animals.

Nor do they spend many moments at this. Ever mindful of what has brought them thither – no mere excursion for pleasure’s sake, but an expedition forced upon them through sad, painful necessity – they waste not a second that can be saved. Quickly, therefore, their horses are got under saddle, and bridled, with every article of their impedimenta fixed and fastened in its respective place, besides, something on the croup of Ludwig recado, which was not hitherto there. Where the lost traps had been carried, are now seen the two thigh-bones of the cock ostrich, with most of the flesh still adhering, each as large as a leg of mutton. There is a heart, liver, and gizzard also stowed away in a wrap of a vihao, or wild plantain leaves, which, tied in a secure packet, dangles alongside; the whole, as Gaspar declared, enough to keep them provisioned for at least a couple of days.

But although everything seems in readiness, they are not yet prepared to take a final departure from the place. A matter remains to be determined, and one of the utmost importance – being no less than the direction in which they should go. They have thought of it the night before, but not till darkness had come down upon them. Still unrecovered from the excitement consequent on the attack of the gymnoti, and afterwards occupied in drying their wet garments, with other cares of the occasion, even Gaspar had failed during daylight to examine the nether side of the ford at its outcoming, where he supposed he might hit upon the trail they were in search of. It was not because he had forgotten it, but that, knowing they would stay there all night, he also knew the tracks, if any, would keep till the morning.

Morning having arrived, from earliest daybreak and before, as is known, they have been otherwise occupied; and only now, at the moment of moving off, do they find time to look for that which must decide their future course and the route they are to take.

With a parting glance at the place of bivouac, and each leading his own horse, they move out of the algarobia grove, and on down to the edge of the riacho, stopping at the spot where they came across.

But not a moment spend they there, in the search for hoof-marks other than those of their own horses. They see others soon as arrived at the stream’s edge; scores of them, and made by the same animals they have been all along tracking. Not much in this it might appear; since unfortunately, these hoof-marks can be distinguished no farther than to the summit of the sloping bank. Beyond they are covered up, as elsewhere, by the mud. But Gaspar’s keen eye is not to be thus baffled; and a joyful ejaculation escaping his lips tells he has discovered something which gives him gladness. On Cypriano asking what it is, he makes answer —

“Just what we’re wanting to find out; the route the redskins have taken after parting from this place. Thanks to the Virgin, I know the way they went now, as well as if I’d been along with them.”

“How do you know that?” questions Cypriano, who with Ludwig has been examining the Indian trail down by the water’s edge – apart from the gaucho, who had followed it up to the summit of the slope.

“Come hither!” he calls out. “Look there!” he adds as they get beside him, “You see that these tracks have the toes all turned down stream; which tells me the horses did the same, and, I should say, also their riders. Yes! Soon as out of the water they turned down; proof good as positive that they’ve gone along the riacho this side, and back again to the big river. So it’s no use our delaying longer here; there’s nothing farther to be learnt, or gained by it.”

So says Gaspar; but Cypriano, and also Ludwig, think otherwise. Both have a wish – indeed, an earnest desire – once more to look upon the tracks of the pony on which they know Francesca to have been mounted. And communicating this to the gaucho, he holds their horses while they return to search for them.

To their satisfaction they again beheld the diminutive hoof-marks; two or three of which have escaped being trampled out by the horses that came behind. And after regarding them for a time with sad glances, Ludwig turns away sighing, while his cousin gives utterance to what more resembles a curse, accompanied by words breathing vengeance against the abductors.

Rejoining the gaucho, all three mount into their saddles; and, without further dallying, ride off down the riacho, to make back for the main river.

But, again upon the latter’s bank, they find the trail blind as before, with nothing to guide them, save the stream itself. To the gaucho, however, this seems sufficient, and turning his horses’s head upward, he cries out —

“Now, muchachos mios! we must on to the salitral!”

And on for this they ride; to reach the point where it commences, just as the sun’s lower limb touches, seeming to rest on the level line of the horizon.

And now, having arrived on the edge of the salitral, they make halt, still keeping to their saddles, with eyes bent over the waste which stretches far beyond and before them. Greater than ever is the gloom in their looks as they behold the sterile tract, which should have shown snow-white, all black and forbidding. For the salitral, as all the rest of the campo, is covered with a stratum of mud, and the travesia across it has been altogether obliterated.

Gaspar only knows the place where it begins; this by the bank of the river which there also commences its curve, turning abruptly off to the south. He thinks the route across the salitral is due westward, but he is not sure. And there is no sign of road now, not a trace to indicate the direction. Looking west, with the sun’s disc right before their faces, they see nothing but the brown bald expanse, treeless as cheerless, with neither break nor bush, stick nor stone, to relieve the monotony of its surface, or serve as a land-mark for the traveller. And the same thing both to the right and left, far as their eyes can reach; for here the river, after turning off, has no longer a skirting of trees; its banks beyond being a low-lying saline marsh – in short, a part of the salitral. To ride out upon that wilderness waste, to all appearance endless, with any chance or hope of finding the way across it, would be like embarking in an open boat, and steering straight for the open ocean.

Not on that night, anyhow, do they intend making the attempt, as the darkness will soon be down upon them. So dismounting from their horses, they set about establishing a camp.

But when established they take little delight in its occupation. Now more than ever are they doubtful and dejected; thinking of that terrible travesia, of which all traces are lost, and none may be found beyond. To Cypriano no night since their starting out seemed so long as this.

Little dream they, while seated around their camp-fire, or lying sleepless alongside it, that the tract of country they so much dread entering upon, will, in a few hours’ time, prove their best friend. Instead of sending them further astray it will put them once more on the lost trail, with no longer a likelihood of their again losing it.

Unaware of this good fortune before them, they seek rest with feelings of the utmost despondency, and find sleep only in short snatches.

Chapter Forty.
On the Salitral

Next morning the trackers are up at an early hour – the earlier because of their increased anxiety – and after break fasting on broiled ostrich leg, make ready to recommence their journey.

Nolens volens, they must embark upon that brown, limitless expanse, which looks unattractive in the light of the rising sun as it did under that of the setting.

In their saddles, and gazing over it before setting out, Gaspar says —

“Hijos mios; we can’t do better than head due westward. That will bring us out of the salitral, somewhere. Luckily there’s a sun in the sky to hold us to a straight course. If we hadn’t that for a guide, we might go zig-zagging all about, and be obliged to spend a night amidst the saltpetre; perhaps three or four of them. To do so would be to risk our lives; possibly lose them. The thirst of itself would kill us, for there’s never drinkable water in a salitral. However, with the sun behind our backs, and we’ll take care to keep it so, there won’t be much danger of our getting bewildered. We must make haste, though. Once it mounts above our heads, I defy Old Nick himself to tell east from west. So let’s put on the best speed we can take out of the legs of our animals.”

With this admonition, and a word to his horse, the gaucho goes off at a gallop; the others starting simultaneously at the same pace, and all three riding side by side. For on the smooth, open surface of the salitral there is no need for travelling single file. Over it a thousand horsemen – or ten thousand for that matter – might march abreast, with wide spaces between.

Proceeding onward, they leave behind them three distinct traces of a somewhat rare and original kind – the reverse of what would be made by travellers passing over ground thinly covered with snow, where the trail would be darker than the surrounding surface. Theirs, on the contrary, is lighter coloured – in point of fact, quite white, from the saltpetre tossed to the top by the hooves of their galloping horses.

The gaucho every now and then casts a glance over his shoulder, to assure himself of the sun’s disc being true behind their backs; and in this manner they press on, still keeping up the pace at which they had started.

They have made something more than ten miles from the point where they entered upon the salitral; and Gaspar begins to look inquiringly ahead, in the hope of sighting a tree, ridge, rock, or other land-mark to tell where the travesia terminates. His attention thus occupied, he for awhile forgets what has hitherto been engaging it – the position of the sun.

And when next he turns to observe the great luminary, it is only to see that it is no longer there – at least no longer visible. A mass of dark cloud has drifted across its disc, completely obscuring it. In fact, it was the sudden darkening of the sky, and, as a consequence, the shadow coming over the plain before his face, which prompted him to turn round – recalling the necessity of caution as to their course.

“Santos Dios!” he cries out, his own brow becoming shadowed as the sky; “our luck has left us, and – ”

“And what?” asks Cypriano, seeing that the gaucho hesitates, as if reluctant to say why fortune has so suddenly forsaken them. “There’s a cloud come over the sun; has that anything to do with it?”

“Everything, señorito. If that cloud don’t pass off again, we’re as good as lost. And,” he adds, with eyes still turned to the east, his glance showing him to feel the gravest apprehension, “I am pretty sure it won’t pass off – for the rest of this day at all events. Mira! It’s moving along the horizon – still rising up and spreading out!”

The others also perceive this, they too, having halted, and faced to eastward.

“Santissima!” continues the gaucho in the same serious tone, “we’re lost as it is now!”

“But how lost?” inquires Ludwig, who, with his more limited experience of pampas life, is puzzled to understand what the gaucho means. “In what way?”

“Just because there’s no may. That’s the very thing we’ve lost, señorito. Look around! Now, can you tell east from west, or north from south? No, not a single point of the compass. If we only knew one, that would be enough. But we don’t, and, therefore, as I’ve said, we’re lost – dead, downright lost; and, for anything beyond this, we’ll have to go a groping. At a crawl, too, like three blind cats.”

“Nothing of the sort!” breaks in Cypriano, who, a little apart from the other two, has been for the last few seconds to all appearance holding communion with himself. “Nothing of the sort,” he repeats riding towards them with a cheerful expression. “We’ll neither need to go groping, Gaspar, nor yet at a crawl. Possibly, we may have to slacken the pace a bit; but that’s all.”

Both Ludwig and the gaucho, but especially the latter, sit regarding him with puzzled looks. For what can he mean? Certainly something which promises to release them from their dilemma, as can be told by his smiling countenance and confident bearing. In fine, he is asked to explain himself, and answering, says: —

“Look back along our trail. Don’t you see that it runs straight?”

“We do,” replies Gaspar, speaking for both. “In a dead right line, thank the sun for that; and I only wish we could have had it to direct us a little longer, instead of leaving us in the lurch as it has done. But go on, señorito! I oughtn’t to have interrupted you.”

“Well,” proceeds the young Paraguayan, “there’s no reason why we shouldn’t still travel in that same right line – since we can.”

“Ha!” ejaculates the gaucho, who has now caught the other’s meaning, “I see the whole thing. Bravo, Señor Cypriano! You’ve beaten me in the craft of the pampas. But I’m not jealous – no. Only proud to think my own pupil has shown himself worthy of his teacher. Gracias a Dios!”

During all this dialogue, Ludwig is silent, seated in his saddle, a very picture of astonishment, alike wondering at what his cousin can mean, and the burst of joyous enthusiasm it has elicited from the gaucho’s lips. His wonder is brought to an end, however, by Cypriano turning round to him, and giving the explanation in detail.

“Don’t you see, sobrino mio, that one of us can stay by the end of the trail we’ve already made, or two for that matter, while the third rides forward. The others can call after to keep him in a straight line and to the course. The three of us following one another, and the last giving the directions from our trail behind, we can’t possibly go astray. Thanks to that white stuff, our back-tracks can be seen without difficulty, and to a sufficient distance for our purpose.”

Long before Cypriano has reached the end of his explanatory discourse, Ludwig, of quick wit too, catches his meaning, and with an enthusiasm equalling that of the gaucho, cries out: —

“Viva, sobrino mio! You’re a genius!”

Not a moment more is lost or spent upon that spot; Ludwig being the one chosen to lead off, the gaucho following, with a long space between them, while the rear is brought up by Cypriano himself; who for this go, and not Gaspar, acts as guide and director.