Chapter Forty Four.
An Indian Belle
If the Tovas chief be in danger of receiving punishment from his people for carrying into captivity the daughter of his father’s friend, there is also danger to the captive herself from another and very different source. Just as the passion of love has been the cause of her being brought to the Sacred Town of the Tovas, that of jealousy is like to be the means of her there finding an early grave.
The jealous one is an Indian girl, named Nacena, the daughter of a sub-chief, who, like Naraguana himself, was an aged man held in high regard; and, as the deceased cacique, now also sleeping his last sleep in one of their scaffold tombs.
Despite her bronzed skin, Nacena is a beautiful creature; for the brown is not so deep as to hinder the crimson blush showing its tint upon her cheeks; and many a South American maiden, boasting the blue blood of Andalusia, has a complexion less fair than she. As on this same evening she sits by the shore of the lake, on the trunk of a fallen palm-tree, her fine form clad in the picturesque Indian garb, with her lovely face mirrored in the tranquil water, a picture is presented on which no eye could look, nor thought dwell, without a feeling of delight; and, regarding her thus, no one would believe her to be other than what she is – the belle of the Tovas tribe.
Her beauty had not failed to make impression upon the heart of Aguara, long before his having become cacique. He has loved her too, in days gone by, ere he looked upon the golden-haired paleface. Both children then, and little more yet; for the Indian girl is only a year or two older than the other. But in this southern clime, the precocity already spoken of is not confined to those whose skins are called white, but equally shared by the red.
Nacena has been beloved by the son of Naraguana, and knew, or at least believed it. But she better knows, that she has been deceived by him, and is now slighted, about to be cast aside for another. That other will, ere long, be chieftainess of the Tovas tribe, while she —
She has reflected thus far, when the bitter thought overpowering causes her to start to her feet, a cry escaping her lips as if it came from a heart cleft in twain.
Nothing of this, however, shows in her face. The expression upon it is rather that of anger, as a jaguarete of her native plains, whose rage has been aroused by the arrow of the Indian hunter suddenly piercing its side. Hitherto silent, she is now heard to speak; but, though alone, the words to which she gives utterance are not in soliloquy: instead, as if spoken to some one who is near, though unseen. It is an apostrophe meant for no mortal ears, but addressed to the Divinity of the lake!
“Spirit of the Waters!” she cries, with arms outstretched and head aloft, “hear my prayer! Tell me if it be true! Will he make her his wife?”
She is silent for a second or two, as though expecting a reply, and listening for it. It comes, but not from the deity addressed. Out of her own heart she has the answer.
“He will; yes, surely will! Else, why has he brought her hither? A false tale he has told in the council of the elders; false as himself! Where are his words, his vows, made to me with lips that gave kisses? Perjured – broken – gone as his love, given to another! And I am soon to see her his queen, salute her as mine, and attend upon her as one of her waiting maids! Never! No, Spirit of the Waters! Rather than do that, I shall go to you; be one of your attendants, not hers. Rather than that, thou shalt take me to thy bosom!”
High-sounding speeches from an Indian girl, scarce fifteen years of age? But love’s eloquence is not confined to age, race, or rank, no more than that of jealousy. Both passions may burn in the breast of the savage maiden, as in the heart of the high-born lady – perhaps tearing it more. Not strange they should find like expression on the lips.
“Why not now?” continues Nacena in a tone that tells of despair, while the cloud upon her brow is seen to grow darker. “Ah! why not? No need waiting longer; I know all. A leap from yonder rock, and all would be over, my suspense, as my sufferings.”
For a moment she stands with eyes fixed upon a rocky promontory, which juts out into the lake near by. Its head overhangs the water, three fathoms deep, as she knows. Many the time has she sprung from that projecting point to swim, naiad-like, underneath it. But the plunge she now meditates is not for swimming, but to sink!
“No!” she exclaims, after a pause, as she withdraws her gaze from the rock, the expression upon her face changing back to that of the jaguarete! “No, Spirit of the Waters! not yet. Nacena fears not to die, but that is not the death for the daughter of a Tovas chief. If wronged, she must resent it, and will. Revenge first, and the deceiver shall first die. After that, O Spirit, thou canst take me; Nacena will no longer care to live.”
As she says this, the sad look returns to her countenance, replacing that of anger; and for a time she stands with head drooped down to her bosom, and arms hanging listlessly by her side – a very picture of despair.
At length, she is about to leave the spot, when a footstep warns her of one making approach; and, turning, she sees who it is. A youth, but to manhood grown, and wearing the insignia of a sub-chief. Though many years older than herself, he is her brother.
“Sister!” he says, coming up to her, and closely scanning her face, “you have thoughts that trouble you. I would know what they are.”
“Oh, nothing,” she rejoins, with an effort to appear calm. “I’ve only been looking over the lake, at the birds out yonder. How they enjoy themselves this fine evening!”
“But you’re not enjoying yourself, Nacena; nor haven’t been for some time past. I’ve noticed that; and more, I know the reason.”
She starts at his words; not to turn pale, but with the blood mantling into her brown cheeks. Still she is silent.
“You need neither deny, nor declare it,” he continues. “’Tis all known to me, save one thing. That alone I wish to ask you about. I must have an answer, and a truthful one. As your brother I demand it, Nacena.”
She fixes her eyes upon him, in a look half-frightened, then timidly asks:
“What thing, Kaolin?”
“Has he deceived you?”
“Deceived!” she echoes, the blush upon her cheeks mounting up to her brow, and becoming deeper red. “Brother! Had any one but you asked that question, I would – Deceived! No; your sister would die before that could have been. As you seem to know all, I will no longer conceal the truth from you. You speak of Aguara. I loved him; ah! love him still. And he told me my love was returned; spoke it solemnly; vowed it. Now I know his words were false, and he was but beguiling me.”
“Then he has trifled with you,” exclaims the brother, his indignation now beyond bounds. “You, my sister, the daughter of a Tovas chief, of birth and blood equal to his own! But he shall repent it, and soon. The time has not come; it will ere long. Enough now, Nacena. Not a word to anyone of what has passed between us. Be patient and wait. For your wrongs, I promise, you snail have revenge.”
And with this threat, he turns away; leaving her on the lake’s edge, as he found her.
Soon as he is out of sight, and his footfall beyond hearing, she reseats herself on the trunk of the palm; and, supporting her head upon her hands, gives way to weeping – a very cataract of tears.
It seems to relieve her from the tumult of emotions late harassing her heart, and after a time she looks up with an expression in her eyes different from all that have preceded. It is of hope; as can be told by the words which fall in low murmuring from her lips:
“After all I may be mistaken. Can I? If so, and he is still true, then I am wronging him, and Kaolin may commit a crime that will bring both punishment and repentance. Oh, that I knew the truth! But surely, Shebotha knows, and can tell it me. She will, for the reward I shall offer her. This night she has promised to meet me on the hill, and then, then – ”
She breaks off abruptly, and with countenance again clouding over. For the words “I shall learn the worst” are on her lips, and the thought in her mind.
It is hope’s last spark, love-lighted from embers nearly extinguished, still flickering, faint, and vainly struggling to burn on.
Chapter Forty Five.
An Elevated Graveyard
Just as the last glimmer of twilight is taking departure from the plain, the three who had sought concealment under the roosting-place of macaws, slip quietly out of the copse, and ride away from it, leaving the noisy birds, now silent, behind them.
There is yet light enough to enable them to take bearings by the hill, which, as they have rightly conjectured, rises over the Tovas town; and, heading direct towards it, after a couple of hours spent in riding at a brisk pace, they arrive at the rocky steep forming a periphery to its base. As there is now a clear moonlight, caution dictates their again getting under cover; which they do by drawing their horses close in to the adjacent cliff, whose shadow sufficiently conceals them. But it is not intended to stay long there. At their last halting-place they had considered everything, and decided upon the steps to be taken; so far as they can, from what is known to them. If the circumstances change, or turn out different from what they are expecting, they must be guided in their action accordingly.
Still in the belief of Naraguana being alive, Ludwig is again of the opinion that they should push on to the town without further delay. The place cannot now be far-off; for at the hill’s base they have struck a broad and much-travelled trail denoting the proximity of a settlement. Cypriano is undecided, but Gaspar, as before, goes strongly against proceeding directly onward.
“You speak of delay, Señor Ludwig,” he says; “but in this case, the old adage, ‘More haste less speed,’ might be true, as it often is. Besides, what would we gain by entering their town now? It isn’t likely we should accomplish anything to-night. You forget the hour it is – nigh unto midnight. And as the custom of most Chaco Indians is early to bed and early to rise, we’d no doubt find every redskin of them asleep, with only their dogs to receive us. Carrai! A nice reception that would be! Like as not some scores of half-famished curs to fall upon us – perhaps drag us out of our saddles. Whereas, in the morning all would be different, with the people up to protect us from such an assault. But whether we enter at night, or by day, I still stick to the belief, that it will be better to do so by stealth; at least, one of us should first slip in that way, and learn how the land lies. In any case, we ought to have a squint at this Sacred Town, before trusting ourselves within its walls – if walls it have. From the look of things here, I fancy it lies on the other side of this hill. By climbing the hill now, and staying on its top till daybreak, we’ll get a god view of the town, which will, no doubt, be right under us. We can see all through the streets, and what’s going on in them. That will give us a hint of how to act afterwards, and if things look favourable, we might then ride boldly in; which, after all, may be the best way of introducing ourselves – only it should be done in the daylight.”
Cypriano sees that the gaucho’s reasoning is correct; and Ludwig also acknowledging it to be so, it is finally decided that they ascend the hill, and remain upon its summit for the rest of that night.
But now comes a question not hitherto asked, or thought of. How is the ascent to be made, and where is there a path practicable for making it? Not only is it steep, but its sides are thickly overgrown with trees, and between their trunks a dense tangle of underwood.
“It must be on its summit, they have their burying-ground,” observes Gaspar, gazing upward. “Yes; Naraguana spoke of its being on the top of a hill, and there’s no other hill near. If that be the case, and they carry their dead up, there’ll sure be some sort of a road for their funeral processions. That would likely be on the other side, straight up from the town. But I warrant there’s a trail starts from this side too, and runs right over the hill. Let’s ride along a bit, and see if there be.”
The gaucho’s conjecture is correct, as they soon discover. Before they have ridden three score lengths of their horses, keeping close along the base of the hill, they perceive an opening in the timber which skirts it, marked by certain insignia denoting the entrance to a much-frequented path. For though narrow, it shows well trampled and trodden. Diverging abruptly from the broad road running on round the hill, it strikes in under a tall cotton tree, a ceiba, this conspicuous from being bent over, as if half-blown down. The path enters between its trunk and a gigantic pita plant (agave), whose stiff spinous leaves almost bar up the entrance as with an iron gate.
“That’s the way we’ve got to go,” says Gaspar, pointing to it, at the same time setting his horse’s head in the direction of the ceiba; then adding, as he nods towards the pita plant; “have a care of your heads, hijos mios! Look out for this queer customer on the left, or you may get your soft cheeks scratched a bit.”
On delivering the admonition he ducks his own head, and passing under the thorny leaves of the agave, commences the ascent of the hill.
Cypriano and Ludwig do likewise; and all three are soon climbing the steep, one behind the other, now in silence, the only sounds heard being the hoof-strokes of the horses, with their hard breathing as they strain up the acclivity.
A quarter of an hour’s tough climbing carries them up the wooded slope, and out upon the open summit, where they have a spectacle before their eyes peculiar, as it is original. As already said, the hill is table-topped, and being also dome-shaped the level surface is circular, having a diameter of some three or four hundred yards. Nothing strange in this, however, since hills of the kind, termed mesas, are common throughout most parts of Spanish America, and not rare in the Gran Chaco. All three are familiar with such eminences. But what they are not familiar with – and indeed none of them have ever seen before – are some scores of queer-looking structures standing all over the summit, with alley-like spaces between! Scaffolds they appear, each having two stages, one above the other, such as might be used in the erection of a two-storey house!
And scaffolds they are, though not employed in any building purposes; instead, for that of burial. They are the tombs on which are deposited the bodies of the Tovas dead; or those of them that during life were dignitaries in the tribe.
On this elevated cemetery the moon is shining brightly, though obliquely, throwing the shadows of the scaffolds aslant, so that each has its counterpart on the smooth turf by its side, dark as itself, but magnified in the moonlight. Gaspar and his companions can see that these singular mausoleums are altogether constructed of timber, the supporting posts being trunks of the Cocoyol palm, the lower staging of strong canes, the caña brava, laid side by side, while the upper one, or roof, is a thatch of the leaves of another species of palm – the cuberta.
After contemplating them for an instant, Gaspar says: “This is the burying-ground Naraguana spoke to me about, beyond a doubt. And not such a bad sort of place either to take one’s final rest in, after life’s worries are over. I shouldn’t much object to being laid out in that style myself. Only I’d need friends to live after me, and keep the structure in repair; otherwise the frail thing might some day come tumbling down, and my poor bones along with it.”
At the conclusion of this quaint speech, he gives the rein to his horse, and moves on among the tombs, making for the opposite side of the cemetery, the others following in silence. For from the brow of the hill on its westward side, they expect to look down upon the Indian town.
“It must be on t’other side,” observes the gaucho, as they proceed. “I remember the old chief saying the tolderia was west of the hill.”
When half-way across he again reins up, halting his horse alongside one of the scaffolds, conspicuous among the rest by its larger size, as also a certain freshness about the timbers of which it is constructed; some chips scattered around the supports, where these have been chopped and barked, telling of recent erection. It is not this, however, has prompted Gaspar to make stop beside it; but simply that he there sees a place suitable for the stalling of their horses. There is no need to take the animals on to the other side, but better leave them there, and themselves go forward afoot.
Thus reflecting, all three dismount, and attach their horses to the corner posts of the scaffold, each choosing one for his own. Then, with cautious steps, they continue to the outer edge of the circle, and pushing through some trees that skirt it, look to the plain below. Sure enough, there is the thing they expected to see – an Indian town or tolderia. A large lake lies beyond, on whose tranquil surface the moon makes a mirror, as if it were glass. But their eyes rest only upon the town, their ears bent to catch any sound that may come up from it.
It is not long till sounds do ascend, the barking of dogs, with now and then the lowing of cattle, and neighing of horses; but no human voice, nothing to tell that the place is inhabited by man. For there is no smoke from the houses, no lights anywhere, everybody seeming to be asleep.
Nothing strange in all this; nor do they looking down from the hill think it so. Instead, things are just as they should be and as Caspar anticipated they would. For it is now the midnight hour, and since red men must have rest as well as white ones, the Tovas have all retired to their beds or hammocks.
So concluding, and satisfied with what they see – reflecting further that nothing more can be done till morning – the gaucho and his companions go back to their horses, with the intention of taking off the saddles, and otherwise disposing of them for the night.
It was at first proposed to keep them tied to the scaffold-posts, but on a second inspection of the place, Gaspar sees it is not the best one either for their animals or themselves to pass the night in. Should they go to rest under the scaffold, while asleep, their horses turning restive might pull down the posts, and bring rattling about their ears the bones of some dead cacique! Besides, the ground underneath is not nice to repose upon; being without herbage and trampled all over, some parts seeming freshly turned up. The gaucho would prefer a patch of soft grass to lay his limbs along, and this very thing he has noticed while they were out on the brow of the eminence overlooking the town. Here a grand fig-tree had attracted his attention, under its branches seeming the most proper place for them to encamp. Its far-spreading and umbrageous boughs drooping back to the ground and there taking root – as the Indian banyan of which it is the New World representative – enclosed a large space underneath. It would not only give them a shelter from the dews of the night, but concealment from the eyes of anyone who might chance to be passing that way.
With these manifest advantages in favour of the ground under the fig-tree as a camping-place, and the disadvantages of that beneath the scaffold, the latter is without further ado forsaken, and the former taken possession of.
As no camp-fire can be safely kindled, nor food cooked, they must go to sleep supperless.
Fortunately none of them is a-hungered, all having made a hearty meal while within the macaw’s grove. There they had polished off the grand “drumsticks” of the ostrich, by good luck already roasted. So caring not for supper, after having disposed of their horses by tying them to branches of the fig-tree, they stretch themselves along the ground, and seek repose, which on this night they all need, as much as on any other since starting upon their long-protracted expedition.
Still, they do not intend to be all asleep at the same time. In such a place, with the danger of being found in it, that would never do. One of the three must remain awake and on watch; so it is arranged that they take the duty of sentinel in turns. As the present hour appears to be the one calling for keenest vigilance, Caspar volunteers for the first turn of guard; and the other two wrapping their ponchos around them, and resting their heads upon their recados, with a mutual Buenas noches! become silent, if not asleep.