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Chapter Forty Nine.
Gaspar means Masquerading

As they might truly anticipate, the gaucho’s conjecture proves to be correct. A road runs up to the summit of the hill on its western side; not direct, but somewhat zigzagged, in consequence of the slope on that face being steeper, and the ground more rocky and uneven. Withal, it is much wider than that by which they ascended, the latter being only a path leading out to the uninhabited pampa: while the former is the main thoroughfare between town and cemetery. It debouches on the level summit through a slight hollow, or defile, possibly due to the wear and tear of travel, continued through the long ages. Many a funeral procession, and from the most remote time, may have wound its way up that steep slope, passing between two cliffs, which, like the posterns of some grand gateway, mark the entrance to this elevated burial-place.

They do not go direct to the point where the town road enters the cemetery ground, but first back to the fig-tree to get their guns, ponchos, and some other articles left under it in their haste to put the horses in a better place of security. Having recovered the weapons and chattels, they proceed in search of the road. It is easily found, as all the paths between the separate scaffolds run into it. The point where it comes up out of the defile is but a short distance from the fig-tree; and on reaching this point they take their stand under the cliff; the one on the right hand side: for the moon being behind this, its shadow is projected more than half across the causeway of the road, so giving them a safe spot to stand in.

But they do not remain long upon their feet. Gaspar, observing a low bench of rock at the cliff’s base behind them, repeats a Spanish synonym of the old saw, “It’s as cheap sitting as standing;” and with this drops down upon the ledge, the others doing likewise.

The spot thus chosen is in every way answerable for the object they have in view. They are right over the Indian town, and can see into its streets, so far as is permitted by the moon’s declining light. It commands, moreover, a view of the road, for a good reach below, to the first angle of the zigzag, and no one could ascend beyond that point without being seen by them so long as there is light; while there is no danger of being themselves seen. One passing up, even when opposite the place where they are seated, would not perceive them; since, in addition to the shadowing cliff, there is a thick scrub between them and the travelled track, effectually screening them.

The advantages of the position are apparent to all; and, soon as settled in it, Cypriano once more calls upon Gaspar to make known the plan he has hinted at.

Thus again challenged, the gaucho, who has meanwhile been doing his best to trace out some course of action, responds, speaking in a slow, meditative way. For as yet he has but a vague idea of what ought to be done.

“Well,” he says, “there’s but one plan I can think of as at all likely to be successful. It may be, if dexterously managed; and I dare say we can so manage it.”

He pauses, seeming to deliberate within himself; which the two youths perceiving, refrain to ask further questions, leaving him to continue at his own time.

Which at length he does, with the odd observation: —

“One of us must become an Indian.”

“Become an Indian!” exclaims Ludwig. “What mean you by that, Gaspar?”

“I mean counterfeit a redskin; get disguised as one, and so steal into their town.”

“Ah! now, I understand. But that will be a dangerous thing to do, Gaspar. If caught – ”

“Of course it will be dangerous,” interrupts the gaucho. “If caught, whoever of us it be, would no doubt get his skull crushed in by a macana, or maybe his body burnt over a slow fire. But as you see everything’s dangerous for us now, one may as well risk that danger as any other. As to counterfeiting an Indian, I propose taking the part myself; and I should be able to play it pretty well, having, as you both know, had some experience in that line. It was by a trick of the same sort I got off from the Guaycurus when I was their prisoner up the Pilcomayo; and if I hadn’t done it neatly, you shouldn’t now see me here.”

“How did you manage it?” queries Ludwig mechanically, or rather, to know how he intended doing it now.

“Well, I borrowed the costume of an ugly savage, who was set to keep guard over me, having first taken a loan of his hardwood club. The club I returned to him, in a way he wouldn’t have wished had he been awake. But he was silly enough to go to sleep, and was sleeping when I took it – ah! and slept on after I returned it – ever after. His dress I kept, and wore for more than a week – in short, till I got back to Paraguay, for I was over a week on the road. It fitted me well; so well, that with some colouring stuff I found in the fellow’s pouch, I was able to paint Indian, pass among the tents of the Guaycurus, and through a crowd of the savages themselves, without one of them suspecting the trick. In that way I slipped out of their camp and off. So, by something of the same I may be able to get the dear little niña out of this town of the Tovas.”

“Oh! do it, Gaspar!” exclaims Cypriano; “do that, and all I have will be yours.”

“Yes! all we both have,” adds Ludwig; “all there is at the estancia. But rescue sister, and I’m sure my mother will make you welcome to everything.”

“Ta-ta!” returns the gaucho, in a tone of reproach at being thus bargained with; gentle, however, as he knows it is from their anxiety about Francesca. “Why, hijos mios, what are you speaking of? Promises to me, – a bribe for but doing my duty! ’Twill be a far day before Gaspar Mendez will need that for service done to either friend or relative of his dear dead master – ay, to the laying down of my life. Carramba! are we not all embarked in the same boat, to swim or sink together? But we sha’n’t sink yet; not one of us. No; we shall swim out of this sea of troubles, and triumphantly. Cease despairing, then; for after all there mayn’t be so much danger. Though Naraguana be dead, there’s one above him, above all, up there in Heaven, who will not forsake us in this our extremity. Let us kneel and pray to Him.”

And they do kneel; Ludwig, as called upon by Gaspar repeating the Lord’s prayer, with a solemnity befitting the occasion.

Chapter Fifty.
A Midnight Promenader

Rising from their knees, and resuming their seats upon the ledge, they return to the subject of discourse, interrupted by their devotional interlude; Caspar declaring it his fixed intention to disguise himself as an Indian, and so seek entrance into the town. No matter what the danger, he is ready to risk it.

The others consenting, the next question that comes before them is, how the disguise is to be got up. About this there seems a difficulty to Ludwig, and also to Cypriano; though recalling the transformation of the latter into a soldier-crane, so quickly done by the deft hands of the gaucho, they doubt not that he will also find the ways and means for transforming himself into a redskin.

“If we only had a Tovas Indian here,” he says, “as I had that sleepy Guaycuru, I’d not be long in changing clothes with him. Well, as we can’t borrow a dress, I must see what can be done to make one. Good luck, there’s no great quantity of cloth in a Tovas suit, and the stitching isn’t much. All that’s needed is a bit of breech-clout, which I can make out of the tail of my shirt; then the poncho over my shoulders, that will cover everything.”

“But the colour of your skin, Gaspar! Wouldn’t that betray you?”

Ludwig thus interrogates, not thinking how easily the dexterous gaucho can alter his complexion, nor recalling what he has said about his having done so to disguise himself as a Guaycuru.

“It might,” returns Gaspar; “and no doubt would, if I left it as it is; which I don’t intend doing. True, my face is not so fair as to need much darkening, beyond what the sun has done for it. I’ve seen some Tovas Indians with cheeks nigh as white as my own, and so have you, señoritos. As for my arms, legs, and body, they’ll require a little browning, but as it so happens I’ve got the stuff to give it them. After the service rendered me by a coat of that colour, you may trust this gaucho never to go on any expedition over the pampas without a cake of brown paint stowed away in some corner of his alparejas. For the poncho, it won’t be out of place. As you know, there are many of the common kind among the Tovas Indians, worn and woven by them; with some of better sort, snatched, no doubt, from the shoulders of some poor gaucho, found straying too far from the settlements.”

“But, Gaspar,” says Ludwig, still doubting the possibility of the scheme; “surely such a disguise as you speak of will never do? In the daylight they’d see through it.”

“Ah! in the daylight, yes, they might. But I don’t intend giving them that chance. If I enter their town at all, and I see no other way for it, that entry must be made in the darkness. I propose making it to-morrow evening, after the sun’s gone down, and when it’s got to be late twilight. Then they’ll all be off guard, engaged in driving their animals into the corrales, and less likely to notice any one strolling about the streets.”

“But supposing you get safe into the place, and can go about without attracting attention, what will you do?” questions Ludwig.

“What can you?” is the form in which Cypriano puts it.

“Well, señoritos, that will depend on circumstances, and a good deal on the sort of luck in store for us. Still you mustn’t suppose I’m trusting all to chance. Gaspar Mendez isn’t the man to thrust his hand into a hornet’s nest, without a likelihood – nay, a certainty, of drawing some honey out of it.”

“Then you have such certainty now?” interrogates Cypriano, a gleam of hope irradiating his countenance. For the figurative words lead him to believe that the gaucho has not yet revealed the whole of his scheme.

“Of course I have,” is Gaspar’s rejoinder. “If I hadn’t we might as well give everything up, and take the back-track home again. We won’t do that, while there’s a chance left for taking the muchachita along with us.”

“Never!” exclaims Cypriano, with determined emphasis. “If I have to go into their town myself, and die in it, I’ll do that rather than return without my cousin.”

“Be calm, hijo mio!” counsels Gaspar in a soothing tone, intended to curb the excitement of the fiery youth; “I don’t think there will be any need for you either to enter the town, or lay down your life in it. Certainly neither, unless my plan get spoiled by the ill luck that’s been so long hanging about us. It isn’t much of a plan after all; only to find one of the Indians, to whom I did a service when they were living at their old place. I cured the man of a complaint, which, but for the medicine I administered, would have carried him off to the happy hunting grounds – where just then he didn’t wish to go. That medicine wasn’t mine either. I had it from the dueño. But the sick man gave me credit for it all the same, and swore if I ever stood in need of his services, I could count upon receiving them, sure. From what I saw of him afterwards, and we came to know one another pretty well, I think I can. If ever there was a redskin to be trusted it’s he. Besides, he’s one of some authority in the tribe – a sort of sub-chief.”

“I know another,” breaks in Ludwig, as if suddenly recollecting; “one who’d help us too – if we could only have a word with him. That’s Nacena’s brother, Kaolin.”

Cypriano casts at his cousin a glance of peculiar meaning – something like surprise. Not because the latter has made mention of an Indian girl and her brother, both known to himself; but his giving the girl’s name first, as though she were uppermost in his thoughts. And she is; though that is a secret the young naturalist has hitherto kept close locked within his own breast.

Without noticing the glance of scrutiny bent upon him, he proceeds to explain himself.

“You may remember, Kaolin and I were the best of friends. He often went fishing with me, or rather I went with him. And I’m sure he’d stand by me now, in spite of Aguara.”

“So much the better,” rejoins Caspar. “If my man fail me, we can fall back upon yours. What I propose doing, then, is this. We must keep quiet, and of course concealed, all day to-morrow till after sunset. We can employ ourselves in the preparation of my masquerading costume. When it comes on twilight, or a little later, I can slip down among those toldos, and go sauntering about, like any other redskin, till I find my old patient. He being a big fellow, there shouldn’t be much difficulty in doing that. When found I’ll make appeal to him, to help us in getting the niña out of – ” he has it on his tongue to say “Aguara’s clutches,” but thinking of the effect of such a phrase falling upon Cypriano’s ears, he concludes with the words, “whatever place they’re keeping her in.”

Caspar’s scheme thus at length declared, seeming feasible enough – and indeed the only one which any of them can think of as at all practicable – the other two signify assent to it; and its execution, or the attempt, is finally determined upon.

Going on to discuss the steps next best to be taken, they are interrupted by the sound of footsteps – some one ascending from below! The footfall is a light one, but distinct enough for them to tell, that whoever makes it is continuing on towards them, though yet unseen. As already said, the causeway is in part overshadowed by the cliff, and within this shadow keeps the person approaching. For all, on the footsteps drawing near, there is light enough for them to make out a figure; the better from its being clad in a drapery of white, loose and flowing, as though the wearer were a woman.

And so is she, or, to speak more correctly, a girl; her sex and age revealed to them, as at a certain point she steps to the off side of the path, and the moonlight falling upon her, exposes to their view a face beautiful as youthful.

Gaspar and Cypriano both recognise the face, but say nothing. Different Ludwig, who at the first glance got of it, unable to restrain himself, mechanically mutters the name —

“Nacena!”

Chapter Fifty One.
A Dispenser of Spells

Fortunately Ludwig’s exclamation has been uttered in a subdued tone of voice; but lest in his agitation he may speak louder, the gaucho grasps him by the arm, and cautions silence, enjoining the same on Cypriano.

For several seconds not another word passes between them, all three remaining motionless, and silent as sphinxes.

Meanwhile the Indian girl having come opposite the place where they are seated, passes onward with cautious step and eyes that interrogate the ground in front, as if she anticipated seeing some one; like a young hind that has stolen timidly out of the covert, on hearing the call-bleat of the stag.

Soon she is far enough beyond to give them an opportunity of exchanging speech without her overhearing it; and of this the gaucho avails himself, whispering —

“She’s keeping an appointment with her lover, I suppose.”

He little thinks of the painful effect his words have produced upon Ludwig, as he adds —

“We’ll do best to let her go on to their place of meeting, which is no doubt somewhere near. She must return this way, and then we can have our interview with her. But where’s the amanté! A laggard, to let the girl be on the ground before him! That wasn’t my way, when – See! she’s coming to a stop.”

And to a stop she comes, just where the sloping path passes out at the upper end of the defile, entering among the scaffolds. There standing erect, she glances inquiringly around, her gaze ranging along the open spaces between the structures and the shadows underneath them.

For a minute or two she remains in this attitude, without changing it, or making the slightest noise – evidently looking for a form or listening for a footstep. But neither seeing the one, nor hearing the other, she at length calls out a name; at first timidly, but after an interval in bolder tone, “Shebotha!”

“Not her lover after all!” mutters Gaspar, who remembers the name thus pronounced, while Ludwig is relieved at hearing it, he also knowing something of the sorceress.

“Only that old hag!” the gaucho goes on; “I wonder now what the young sprout can be wanting with her, up here and at this hour of the night! Some mischief between them, I haven’t a doubt.”

His conjectures are suddenly brought to a close by a new noise now reaching their ears; a sort of scraping or shuffling, diversified by grunts and coughs – all coming up from below. Turning their eyes that way, they see ascending what appears to be a human figure, but stooped forward so as more to resemble a creature crawling on all fours. At the same instant the Indian girl has caught sight of it; and standing poised on the platform’s edge, she silently awaits its approach, knowing the bent form to be Shebotha’s.

Scrambling on up the steep, at intervals stopping to take breath, while she intermittently gives out hoarse grunts, the hag passes by them, at length reaching the spot where the girl stands awaiting her. Stopping by the side of the latter, both are now seen face to face in the full moonlight; and never did moon shine upon faces or figures more contrasting. On the one side age indicated by a spare body, thin skinny arms, features furrowed with wrinkles, of most repulsive aspect, and eyes sparkling with a sinister light; on the other, youth, with all its witching charms, a figure lithe and graceful as any palm growing on the plain below, features of classic type, and a face exquisitely beautiful, despite its tint of bronze, the eyes bright with the glow of a burning passion. For it is this last that has brought the girl thither.

Only a second or two do they remain silent, till the sorceress recovers breath; for it is she who breaks the silence, saying: —

“Nacena wants to speak with Shebotha? On what subject?”

“Need I tell you, Shebotha; you know!”

“I know that the sister of Kaolin is in love with our young cacique. That is no secret to others, any more than to me.”

“Oh! do not say that! I thought no one knew of it but – ”

“But everybody,” interrupts the unfeeling hag. “And what if they do? Nacena is beautiful, the belle of our tribe, and need fear no rival; not even her with the eyes of blue, and the tresses of gold, who sleeps under Shebotha’s roof. Nacena is jealous of the paleface captive; she has no cause.”

“O, good Shebotha!” cries the young girl, in passionate tone, her heart heaving with rekindled hope, “can you assure me of that? If so, you shall have all I can give you; my armlets, neck ornaments, mantas, hamacas, everything. Fear not my rewarding you well!”

“Nacena is generous,” rejoins the sorceress, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at such a wholesale proffer of chattels. “She shall have that assurance; for Shebotha can give it without fail. See this!”

While speaking, she has drawn out, from under the skin robe that covers her bony breast, what appears to be a small horn, converted into a phial with bottom and stopper.

“In this,” she says, holding it up to the light, “is a fluid, one drop of which, given to Aguara will turn his heart whichever way Shebotha wishes it turned; make him love whomsoever she wants him to love; and that will be as Nacena wants it.”

“Oh! it is good of you, Mam Shebotha so good! How shall I ever enough thank or reward you?”

“No matter about thanks,” responds the hag with a knowing leer; “Shebotha likes better the reward. And what you’ve promised will content her. But promises, as Nacena herself knows, are sometimes badly kept, and should have something to secure them, by way of earnest. What can you give me now?”

The girl glances down to her breast, upon which lie several pendants, sustained by a massive chain of gold passing around her neck. Then she holds out her arms to show bracelets upon the wrists, beset with pearls and precious stones, that no doubt once clasped other wrists than hers – those of palefaced doncellas dwelling in Santiago or Salta. Unclasping the armlets, one after another, she delivers them to Shebotha.

But the avaricious beldame is not yet satisfied. With her eyes upon the chain necklet and its glittering attachments, she nods towards it, as much as to say, “That too.” And it, also, is detached; and handed over to her. Then her greedy eyes go to the fillet around the girl’s temples, and an embroidered belt which encircles her waist. But these, though pretty ornaments, are not of great intrinsic value; and as Shebotha has in view a further levy of blackmail at a future time, she can then take them too.

For the present she appears content, all the more as she gloats over the treasure, which for a while she feasts her eyes upon without speaking. Then slipping the various articles, one after another, into the bosom of her dress, she resumes speech, saying —

“Shebotha has other spells besides that spoken of; one powerful above all, which puts to sleep – ah! a sleep from which the sleeper never awakes. If the other should fail to act, and Aguara – ”

“But you said it could not fail,” breaks in the girl, her countenance again clouding over. “Is there a doubt, Mam Shebotha?”

“There’s always uncertainty in these things,” rejoins the sorceress; “and in the love-spell more than any other. As you know, love is the strongest passion, and therefore the most difficult to control.”

All this, by way of making safe her bargain, for well knows she her spell will not bring back Aguara’s love, lost to Nacena; and as the bulk of the reward promised will depend upon this, she has yet another proposal to make that may ensure its payment. She acts as one who would hedge a bet, and drawing closer to the victim of her delusion, she says —

“If Nacena should ever want the paleface put to sleep by that other spell, Shebotha will administer it.”

As the fiendish suggestion is spoken in a whisper, the three listeners do not hear what it is. They can only guess by the behaviour of the young girl that some offer has been made which she indignantly rejects. This can be told by her rejoinder, and the air in which she delivers it.

“No!” she exclaims, starting back with an expression of horror upon her countenance. “Never, never! If Aguara be untrue to me, it is no fault of the paleface. I know that; and have no vengeance for her. But for him – ah! if he have deceived me, it is not she, but he should suffer punishment. And punished he shall be – by my brother.”

“Oh! your brother!” returns the sorceress with a sneer, evidently in anger at having her offer so rejected. “If Kaolin can right your wrongs, let him.” And she adds, making to move off, “I suppose you haven’t any more need for me, or my services.”

“If she haven’t I have,” cries Gaspar, springing out from the place of concealment and seizing hold of the hag, while at the same instant Cypriano flings his arms around the Indian girl.

“Come, Mam Shebotha!” continues the gaucho, “it’s my turn to have a talk with you.”

She makes an effort to escape, and would cry out; but cannot, with his sinewy fingers around her throat.

“Stop your struggling!” he commands, giving her a shake till her old bones crackle at every joint. “A cry, a word from you above a whisper, and I’ll close your windpipe so that you’ll never grunt through it again. Come, muchachos! Let’s to the other side! One of you bring on the girl. Vamos!”

Raising the hag in his arms he bears her off, with no more care for her comfort than if she were a trapped wolf. Nacena is borne more tenderly in Ludwig’s arms, into which she has been transferred, by a sort of tacit understanding between him and his cousin – the latter walking alongside. No threat hears the girl, nor needs it to enforce silence. For she is no more apprehensive of injury, now knowing him who carries her as her brother’s old playfellow. Above all, does she feel reassured, on hearing whispered in her ear —

“Have no fear, Nacena! Am not I the bosom friend of your brother? I will not deceive you.”

Does she note the earnestness of his words, and the significant emphasis given to those last pronounced? Whether or not, she refrains making rejoinder: but suffers herself to be borne on through the scaffold tombs without resistance, and silent as the forms reposing upon them.