Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers

by Burt L. Standish

in the same direction.

  "Our horses were gone!"

  Far away on the plain we could descry two black moving spots. Thesewere our steeds, but miles beyond our power of recall.

  Night had quite fallen before we left the lake side, for we had to goright back to the places from which our horses had stampeded for ourguanaco mantles.

  The stars were shining brightly, and high in the heavens was Jill'shalf-moon; so that for a time we had light enough. We gave many ananxious glance towards the west, however. We naturally wondered whetherour horses had gone straight home. If so, assistance would speedilycome. It was unlikely, however, for, excited with having obtained theirfreedom, the animals would be more apt to make for the forest, there toplay truant for a time and crop the twiglets--already breaking into budand burgeon--from their favourite bushes and trees.

  By the time we had walked about three miles we felt very tired indeed,and agreed to abandon our game. We put them, therefore, in a heap onthe plain, and continued our journey. But for that ominous cloud bankwhich was rising higher and higher, we should have taken the journeymore easy, and perhaps have rested a while.

  On we walked, almost dragging our weary limbs now. The night stillcontinued fine, the moon seemed to change into molten silver, the starsliterally sparkled and shone like diamonds in their background of darkethereal blue.

  There was something almost appalling, however, in the gradual approachof that great sheet of cloud, rising grim and dark on the westernhorizon. It came on and up more swiftly every minute, and soon coveredone whole third of the heavens.

  On and up, on and upwards, swallowing star after star, constellationafter constellation, and now it has reached the moon itself, and for amoment only its outer edge is a rim of golden light; then the moon toodisappears, is buried in the black advancing mass. Almost at the sametime the wind comes moaning over the plain, accompanied with drivingsnow. It increases every minute, and soon it is nearly impossible towalk against it.

  It is almost a hurricane now; it moans no longer, it roars, shrieks,howls around us, and the snow freezes into cakes upon our garments, intoice on our faces, into icicles on our hair.

  Sometimes we turn round and walk with our backs to the terrible blast.Often we fall, but we help each other up, for we are hand in hand asbrothers ever should be.

  Jill whispers--it seems but a whisper though he is shouting--in my earat last.

  "I can do no more, brother. I am sinking."

  I feel glad--glad of the excuse to sink down among the snow and rest alittle. Only a little. We creep close together, with our backs to thestorm, pulling up our mantles round our heads and drawing in our legsfor warmth. Oh, those good guanaco mantles, what a blessing they arenow!

  I keep talking to Jill and he to me, though we each have to shout intothe other's ear.

  I remember calling--

  "Jill, we must not sleep. Are you drowsy?"

  "No, not very."

  "To sleep were death."

  After a few moments, in an agony of desperation, thinking and fearingmore for my brother than myself, I spring up, and again we try towrestle on. The dogs keep close to our heels, though we hardly can seethem, so covered are they with snow and ice.

  In vain, in vain. We can go no farther, and once more take shelterbeneath our robes of skin. Ossian and Bruce creep partly between us.

  We talk no more now, but determinedly try to keep awake.

  A whole hour must have passed in this way. I am not on the plain now,it seems to me. I am wandering with my brother over the moorland athome, where when boys we met the convict. But the moor is strangelychanged; it is all a-glimmer with radiant light. Every bush, branch,twig, and twiglet seem formed of coloured light or flame; the scene isgorgeous, enchanting.

  Suddenly, all is dark. My brother is wrenched away from my grasp, and--I awake shrieking. I awake to find myself lying on the log-house flooron a couch of guanaco skins.

  My brother is safe, and even the dogs.

  In an hour's time we are both well enough to get up and refreshourselves with a cup of Pedro's _yerba mate_.

  But our escape had been little short of miraculous. We had wandered along distance out of the track, for the wind had gone round, and wereentirely buried when found, only faithful Ossian and Bruce's voices hadbeen heard high above the roaring storm.

  We owed our lives to them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

  THE FIGHT 'TWIXT WINTER AND SPRING--A NEVER-TO-BE-FORGOTTEN EVENING--ATTACKED BY NORTHERN INDIANS--THE FIRE.

  Would Springtime never come again?

  We had expected it weeks ago. The birds and beasts in the forest hadexpected it too. The former had commenced to sing, the latter had grownunusually active; guanacos had been in search of tender herbage, pumashad been in search of the guanacos. Hungry, lank, dismal-eyed foxes hadcome down to stare at the toldos when the dogs were eating; and even thearmadillos had unrolled themselves from cosy caves and corners, andcrawled at night towards the encampment.

  Then the new snowstorm had come on all so suddenly too.

  The denizens of the woods had taken shelter under the trees; in some ofthese the branches, snow-laden, had dropped groundward, forming quite aseries of tents in the forest. In these the Indians had found wholecolonies of great gawky-looking ostriches, and had made a harvest infeathers.

  Lawlor, wading through the snow one day, and peeping in under the trees,came face to face with a puma. It would have gone hard with him had notRitchie, rifle in hand, been close alongside and shot the huge beastwhile it was in the very act of springing.

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  But the dreary season came to an end at last, and the snow began to meltand to fly away. Then winter and spring seemed to fight together forthe mastery. Winter riding on the wings of a fierce west wind thatroared harshly through the woods and bent the trees before it. Winterdriving before him battalions of threatening clouds, white, grey, andblack, and trying to blot out the sun. Frost, with his crystal cohorts,struggling for every inch of ground, fighting for the lake of theplains, which had succumbed to the last terrible storm and was hardenedover; fighting for the streams, the rapids, the cataracts.

  The sun, in all his beauty and splendour, shooting out every now andthen into the rifts of blue, and sending his darts groundwards at everyunprotected spot, each ray a ray of hope for the long-enslaved earth.Sunshine glittering on the leaves of evergreen shrubs, shining on theneedles of pines, and adorning every budding twig with radiantdew-drops, that erst were crystals of ice.

  Spring victorious on the higher grounds, and sending down torrents andfloods to assist its triumph in the lowlands and plains.

  Winter at last vanquished and gone, and forced to fly even from underthe trees and every shady nook.

  Now comes a warm soft breeze from the north and the east, and all theland responds to it. Torrents still pour from the hills, but the woodsgrow green in little over a week, and wild flowers carpet every knolland bank.

  We are all active now in the _estancia_ and in the camp. We arepreparing for the long march back over the Pampa to Santa Cruz, whereCastizo says he doubts not his little yacht is already lying safely atanchor, and his daughter anxiously waiting his appearance.

  Horses are now better fed and tended, and regularly exercised day afterday. Saddles are repaired, and stirrups and bridles seen to. The womenare busier than ever with their needles. Boys and girls are twiningsinews for the strings of bolas and for lassoes. The dogs seem wildwith delight. They all appear to know we will soon be on the march oncemore, and they dearly love their life on the plains.

  Our stores are nearly exhausted--I mean our coffee, tea, _mate_ andsugar. Flesh is still abundant, and always is. So no one will be sorryto leave this lovely forest nook, albeit we have spent many a happy dayin it.

  "In three days more," said Castizo one evening, as we all sat round theblazing logs, "we will be ready to
start."

  "I feel a little sorry in leaving this place," said Jill.

  "There is nothing but leave-takings in this world," said Castizo; "andthe happier one is the quicker the time flies, and the sooner seems tocome this leave-taking."

  "Never mind," said Peter; "if our good cacique would only say he wouldtake me, I should be right glad to return with him another day."

  "You will come back, I dare say, sir?" said Ritchie.

  "If spared, yes. I may not spend another winter here though, for thesimple reason that I will not have such pleasant company. I am fond ofloneliness, still I shall ever look back to this winter as to some ofthe happiest months ever I spent in all my chequered career."

  "So shall we all," I made bold to say.

  "Hear, hear," said Peter and Jill.

  "You've been happy, Pedro?"

  "Ah! senor, multo, multo."

  "Peter, your pipe."

  "Is that a command," said Peter.

  "Certainly. Am I not still your cacique?"

  Peter got his pipe and commenced to play, and presently, after a gentleknock at the door, in came the giant Jeeka and his wife Nadi. Theystood at some little distance till invited to draw nearer the fire.Then they squatted on a guanaco skin, Jeeka holding his wife's hand inhis lap, and both looking so pleased and happy.

  I shall never forget their faces. I have but to place my hand over myeyes at this moment, and I see them once again.

  Alas! little did they know what was before them. And little did any onethere expect what happened before the sun of another day crimsoned thepeaks of the lofty mountains.

  Peter, Jill, and I sat long that night in our little room before turningin, talking of home. But Peter had something else to speak about. Needit be said that Dulzura--as he still delighted to call her--formed hischief subject for discourse to-night.

  "Oh," he said, "I only wonder you fellows did not hear my heart goingpit-a-pat, when Castizo told us his daughter was coming round in theyacht."

  "My dear Peter," Jill said, "I do believe you are actually in love."

  "Is it the first time you've discovered it, my honest Greenie? Haven'tI cause to be? Was there ever such a lovely or fascinating creature inthe world as Dulzura! And I'm a man now, remember. Twenty-one, boys,or I will be in a month."

  He stroked an incipient moustache as he spoke, and appeared savagebecause Jill and I laughed at him.

  "Suppose Dulzura is already engaged?" said Jill, somewhat provokingly.

  "Jill, you're a Job's comforter," replied Peter. "Of course, if she isengaged, there's an end to the matter. I'd enter a convent and turn afather."

  "A pretty father you'd make," cried Jill, laughing again.

  "All right," said Peter, "Wait till you're in love, Greenie, and won't Iserve you out just!"

  "Well, boys," I put in, "a happy thought has just occurred to me."

  "Let's have it."

  "Suppose we cease talking and all go to bed."

  "Right," cried Peter, jumping up and beginning to undress.

  In a few minutes more "good-nights" were said, and we were composingourselves to sleep. Sleep in this region is deep and heavy, and I maysurely add healthy, for one awakens in the morning feeling as fresh asthe daisies or the proverbial lark.

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  I did not seem to have been asleep a quarter of an hour when Peter shookme by the shoulder.

  "Jack, Jack," he was saying, "there is something up."

  Peter was already dressed, and accustomed as I had been to scenes ofdanger I was soon following his example, though hardly knowing where Iwas or what I was doing.

  "Don't you hear?" said Peter.

  I listened now. In a moment I was as wide awake as ever I have been inmy life.

  I remember everything that happened that morning as though 'twere butyesterday. It _was_ morning too. Our windows faced the east, and therewas a faint glimmering of the dawn already in the sky.

  From the direction of the Indian camp, came first a subdued hum of angryvoices. These were soon mingled with shouts of men and screams of womenand children, and presently there were added the clash of weapons andthe ring of revolver shots.

  "They are fighting down at the toldos," said Peter. "Hurry up with yourdressing."

  "Whom are they fighting with?"

  "I cannot say. It may be mutiny. Either that, or the Northern Indiansare on us."

  "Heaven forbid."

  "Here, Greenie!" cried Peter.

  "Jill, Jill!" I shouted, "Get up, brother. They are fighting."

  Jill sat up and listened for a moment, then threw himself doggedly backagain on his pillow.

  "Jill!" I roared, shaking him viciously, "get up, you silly sleepy boy.The Indians are on us."

  Jill appeared fairly roused now. He sprang up and began to hurry on hisdress.

  We, that is Peter and I, got our revolvers and stuck them in our belts--they were always kept loaded; then we took our swords and sallied out.

  "Follow quick, Jill," were my last words to my brother. "Look out forme and get to my side. We may have to do a bit more back to back work."

  We saw at a glance that it was Northern Indians with whom we had todeal, and quite a large party.

  The fight was raging fiercely. Peter and I overtook Ritchie and Lawlorhurrying into the fray, and joined them. Castizo was already there. Wecould hear his stern words of command, and we noticed too that hisrevolver emptied many a saddle. Our people were fighting on foot, butfighting well and bravely. The women and children had already fled tothe forest.

  We came up at the right time, evidently, and the volleys we poured increated the greatest confusion in the ranks of the enemy. They seemedstaggered for a little while, and made as if to retreat, but wererallied and came on once more to the charge.

  How long we fought I could not say; it might have been ten minutes, orit might have been half an hour.

  Suddenly there was a momentary lull, and I looked about me for Jill. Hewas nowhere to be seen. I shouted to Peter. He had not seen him. Iextricated myself from the _melee_ as best I could, and hurried back tothe log-house. The poor foolish fellow must have gone to sleep again.As it happened, this is precisely what he had done. But, to my horror,I found the log-house surrounded by smoke. _It was on fire_.

  And my brother was there, in its midst.

  How I reached the door I never knew. At first I seemed dazed, nor am Icertain that at any period of that dreadful night I regained theequilibrium of my senses.

  I rushed in through smoke and flames. I could just distinguish mybrother's form lying half-dressed on his couch, but was speedily obligedto retreat.

  Then I remember feeling angry with the fire, mad almost. Why should theflames take my brother from me, the being I loved as my own soul? No,no! Save him I must, save him I should! I looked upon the fire as aliving thing, as a cruel, remorseless, merciless wild beast. I foughtthe fire. I defied it. I was calm, though; that is, I was calm asregards the rational sequence of my actions, but in reality I was amaniac for the time being. Do men, I wonder, who do marvellous deeds ofdaring in the field or lead forlorn hopes, feel and fight as I then did?

  With a strength that did not appear to be my own, I tore down theblazing door-posts and door that barred my entrance. Then once more Iwas in the room. Groping around now, stumbling too, for I could seenothing in the smoke. Ah! here at last I have him; I have him at lastnow!

  Out now I struggle and stagger, and fall choking in the morning air.

  CHAPTER THIRTY.

  "IT IS BETTER THUS."

  Yes, Jill was saved. He soon revived, and was able to follow me down tothe toldos.

  My hands were badly burned, but I did not feel pain then. Such a gushof happiness had come over my heart when Jill spoke to me again, that Iforgot everything else.

  Daylight had by this time spread itself right athwart the sky; and Iremember the morn
ing was beautiful with one crimson feathery cloud overthe eastern horizon, where the sun was soon to show.

  By the time we reached the Indian camp, the battle was over and won.The survivors of the Northern Indians had been beaten back to the woodsfrom which they had sallied, and there was but little fear that theywould come again. Too many of their saddles had been emptied toencourage a renewal of the warfare.

  It was a sad scene. The tents torn and flapping in the morning breeze,some of them down; broken spears and guns and daggers lying here andthere; dead and dying horses; dead and dying men, the anguish of thewomen, the wailing of the children.

  I took all this in at a glance. Then my eyes were riveted on a group atsome little distance, and I hastened thither, to find Castizo kneelingbeside the tall noble form of the prostrate Prince Jeeka.

  He holds out his right hand as I approach; Castizo gives place to me,and I kneel where he had knelt. At his other side crouches Nadi. Sheis bewildered and silent, grief and anguish depicted in every line ofher poor drawn, pinched face.

  "Jeeka, Jeeka, are you much hurt? Who has done this?"

  "Hurt? Yes. Ya shank, ya shank." (I am tired and sleepy). "So, so."

  He closed his eyes for a moment. I thought he was gone, but he slowlyopened them again, and looked at me.

  "Poor Nadi!" he said. "It--was--her brother. So, so."

  This, then, was the key to the awful night's work. Revenge. Verilythese Patagonian Indians are men of like passions with ourselves.

  "The Great Good Spirit is come. Jeeka goes--home. Tell me--the storyof the--world. So, so."

  These were the last words poor Prince Jeeka ever spoke on earth. He hadgone to learn the story of the world, in a better world than ours.

  We all came away