by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
A TEDIOUS JOURNEY.
It yet wants full two hours of sunset, as the gaucho and his companioncome within sight of the estancia. Still, so distant, however, that thehouse appears not bigger than a dove-cot--a mere fleck of yellow, thecolour of the _cana brava_, of which its walls are constructed--halfhidden by the green foliage of the trees standing around it. The pointfrom which it is viewed is on the summit of a low hill, at least aleague off, and in a direct line between the house itself and thedeserted Indian village. For although the returning travellers have notpassed through the latter place, but, for reasons already given,intentionally avoided it, the route they had taken, now nearer home, hasbrought them back into that, between it and the estancia.
A slow journey they have made. It is all of eight hours since, atearliest sunrise, they rode out from among the _sumac_ trees on the bankof the branch stream; and the distance gone over cannot be much morethan twenty miles. Under ordinary circumstances the gaucho would havedone it in two hours, or less.
As it is, he has had reasons for delaying, more than one. First, hisdesire to make the journey without being observed; and to guard againstthis, he has been zig-zagging a good deal, to take advantage of suchcover as was offered by the palm-groves and scattered copses of_quebracho_.
A second cause retarding him has been the strange behaviour of histravelling companion, whose horse he has had to look after all along theway. Nothing has this rider done for himself, nor is yet doing; neitherguides the horse, nor lays hand upon the bridle-rein, which, caught overthe saddle-bow, swings loosely about. He does not even urge the animalon by whip or spur. And as for word, he has not spoken one all day,neither to the gaucho, nor in soliloquy to himself! Silent he is, aswhen halted by the edge of the _sumac_ wood, and in exactly the sameattitude; the only change observable being his hat, which is a littlemore slouched over his face, now quite concealing it.
But the two causes assigned are not the only ones why they have been solong in reaching the spot where they now are. There is a thirdinfluencing the gaucho. He has not wished to make better speed. Nordoes he yet desire it, as is evident by his actions. For now arrived onthe hill's top, within sight of home, instead of hastening on towards ithe brings his horse to a dead halt, the other, as if mechanically,stopping too. It is not that the animals are tired, and need rest. Thepause is for a different purpose; of which some words spoken by thegaucho to himself, give indication. Still in the saddle, his faceturned towards the distant dwelling, with eyes intently regarding it, hesays:--
"Under that roof are three hearts beating anxiously now, I know. Soonto be sadder, though; possibly, one of them to break outright. _Poberesenora_! what will she say when she hears--when she sees this?_Santissima_! 'twill go wellnigh killing her, if it don't quite!"
While speaking, he has glanced over his shoulder at the other horseman,who is half a length behind. But again facing to the house, and fixinghis gaze upon it, he continues:--
"And Cypriano--poor lad! He'll have his little heart sorely tried, too.So fond of his cousin, and no wonder, such a sweet _chiquitita_. Thatwill be a house of mourning, when I get home to it!"
Once more he pauses in his muttered speech, as if to consider something.Then, looking up at the sun, proceeds:
"It'll be full two hours yet before that sets. Withal I must wait forits setting. 'Twill never do to take him home in broad daylight. No;she mustn't see him thus, and sha'n't--if I can help it. I'll stop heretill it's dark, and, meanwhile, think about the best way of breaking itto her. _Carramba_! that will be a scene! I could almost wish myselfwithout eyes, rather than witness it. Ah! me! It'll be enough painfulto listen to their lamentations."
In conformity with, the intention just declared, he turns his horse'shead towards a grand _ombu_--growing not far off--the same which, theday before, guided him back to his lost way--and riding on to it pullsup beneath its spreading branches. The other horse, following, stopstoo. But the man upon his back stays there, while the gaucho actsdifferently; dismounting, and attaching the bridles of both horses to abranch of the tree. Then he stretches himself along the earth, not toseek sleep or rest, but the better to give his thoughts to reflection,on that about which he has been speaking.
He has not been many minutes in his recumbent attitude before beingaroused from it. With his ears so close to the ground, sounds arecarried to him from afar, and one now reaching them causes him first tostart into a sitting posture, and then stand upon his feet. It is butthe trample of a horse, and looking in the direction whence it comessees the animal itself, and its rider soon is seen, recognising both.
"Cypriano!" he mechanically exclaims, adding, "_Pobrecito_! He's beenimpatient; anxious; too much to stay for my return, and now's comingafter."
It is Cypriano, approaching from the direction of the house whence hehas but lately started, and at great speed, urged on by the anxietywhich oppresses him. But he is not heading for the _ombu_, instead,along the more direct path to the Indian town, which would take him pastthe tree at some three hundred yards' distance.
He does not pass it, nevertheless. Before he has got half-way up thehill, Caspar, taking the bridle of his own horse from the branch, leapsinto the saddle, and gallops down to meet him. The gaucho has a reasonfor not hailing him at a distance, or calling him to come under the_ombu_, till he first held speech with him.
"Caspar!" shouts the youth excitedly, soon as he catches sight of theother coming towards him. "What news? Oh? you've not found them! Isee you haven't!"
"Calm yourself, young master!" rejoins the gaucho, now close up to him;"I have found them--that is, one of them."
"Only one--which?" half distractedly interrogates the youth.
"Your uncle--but, alas--"
"Dead--dead! I know it by the way you speak. But my cousin! Where isshe? Still living? Say so, Caspar! Oh, say but that!"
"Come senorito, be brave; as I know you are. It may not be so bad forthe _nina_, your cousin. I've no doubt she's still alive, though I'venot been successful in finding her. As for your uncle, you must prepareyourself to see something that'll pain you. Now, promise me you'll bearit bravely--say you will, and come along with me!"
At this Gaspar turns his horse, and heads him back for the _ombu_, theother silently following, stunned almost beyond the power of speech.But once under the tree, and seeing what he there sees, it returns tohim. Then the gaucho is witness to an exhibition of grief and rage,both wild as ever agitated the breast of a boy.