And now Power began his regenerative work anew.
Thanks to the phenomenal style of his coming among them, the savages spared his life; but their possession of an almost unlimited stock of chi-chi, and the truculent mood which strong drink induces, even in Indians, led them, at first, to treat him as a Kokó-huinché, or “white fool.” Though their hunting-grounds were hundreds of miles from the coast, and singularly remote from the influence of white settlers, they were aflame with vague resentment against the invaders, and gladly made one of the hated race the butt of their malevolent humor.
So Power, in self-defense, took to artifice. He discovered that they possessed two kegs of gunpowder, but owned no guns. He learned, too, that once there had been three kegs, but a careless experiment with one had removed a chief and his family. With some difficulty, and only by tickling their imagination by promising an exhibition of magic, he obtained some of the powder, and, on a dark night, electrified the community by a display of fireworks. Catharine wheels and Roman candles achieved wonders among the foothills of the Andes. From that instant his supremacy was established. A squib or two enforced edicts; a rocket set a constitution squarely on its feet. In less than three years he had become the Indians’ trusted guide and teacher. The day came when the store of powder was almost gone; yet he was strong enough to prohibit the manufacture of that season’s supply of chi-chi.
But there was one thing he could not do. He could not calm these wild people’s frenzy when a hunting party came in hot haste from the plains and announced that a cavalcade of white men was forcing a passage along the river, being evidently bent on penetrating the valley of the apple-trees.
Power was asked to repel this invasion by black art; failing which, the Araucanians decided to massacre the explorers in a neighboring canyon. He had not the least doubt as to the success of the scheme. He knew the natural difficulties of the place. The upper end could be barricaded, the lower blocked by spearmen hidden in the dense vegetation, and every intruder caught in the trap would be battered to death by boulders flung from the crests of opposing precipices.
Very reluctantly the Indians allowed him to act as their ambassador. By sheer force of will he bore down opposition, and was taken to a point whence the smoke of campfires was visible above the trees. It was hard to say whether the faith his friends placed in him was stronger than their fear and loathing of the white strangers; but he exacted a promise that, if he persuaded the members of the expedition to retreat, they would not be molested. Oddly enough, neither he nor the Indians gave a thought to any other possible development. These savages believed that the white god who had dropped upon them from the skies would never leave them, and Power himself had almost forgotten the existence of the outer world. Most certainly, he paid no heed to the fact that his seven years of expiation were nearly sped. He was happy among these simple people. In his way, he was a king, and the habit of ruling had become second nature.
By chance, that day he carried the spear which had been his faithful ally in crossing the Andes, and a weird and barbarous figure he must have presented when he walked into an almost unguarded camp which had been set up for a few hours on the right bank of the river. Clothed in skins, his face bronzed to a deep brown by constant exposure to the elements, his hair falling over his shoulders, and a long beard sweeping to his breast, he looked a veritable wild man of the woods.
A halfbreed peon who was the first to see him whipped out a revolver, and shouted a warning; but Power held his spear crosswise above his head, showing, by this Indian sign, that he came in peace, and he was permitted to approach.
“Where is your leader?” he asked in Spanish.
The peon seemed to be vastly astonished; but he turned to a tall, thin, elderly man who had dived out of a tent at his cry, and now strode forward.
“Where have you come from?” he said; but his speech betrayed him, and Power added to the sensation he had already caused by saying:
“You are no Spaniard, at any rate.”
“Good Lord!” cried the other. “It’s an Englishman!”
“Next thing to it, an American,” said Power.
“What is your name, and how do you happen to be in this outlandish place?” was the bewildered demand.
“I am here to explain all that, and more. Are you the head of this expedition?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what about discussing matters in that tent of yours?”
“Come right along,” said the stranger, leading the way.
CHAPTER XV
THE NEW LIFE
Nearly seven years had elapsed since Power had either seen a man of his own race, or heard civilized speech. During all that time, save when he spoke aloud in self-communing, or hummed the half-remembered words of a song, he had neither uttered, nor read, nor written a word of English. One literary treasure, indeed, had come his way, and he made good use of it.
Some men of the tribe, digging one day for truffles, broke into a cave, in which there was a skeleton. Among the bones, wrapped in soft leather and parchment, the Indians found a book, which they brought to their white leader. It was an illuminated Book of Hours, or “Horæ Beatæ Mariæ Virginis,” written in Latin and Spanish, and, as Power ascertained subsequently, the work of an Italian of the fifteenth century. No more beautiful example of the exquisite classical Renaissance period could be produced by the Vatican library. The character in the figures and naturalness in the landscapes bespoke a ripe art, and many of the vellum pages were bordered by the solid frame which gives full scope to the artist’s fancy by its facilities for the introduction of medallions, vignettes, twisted Lombardic vines, cupids, fawns, colored gems, and birds of brilliant plumage. Veritably, this “Horæ” was more precious than if its leaves were of solid gold; its value to Power in those lonely hours was of a spring in the desert to a parched traveler.
Despite such an invaluable stimulus to his mind, however, it was almost with difficulty, and certainly with marked hesitancy, that he was able now to arrange the words of a sentence in their ordered sequence, and often he found his tongue involuntarily lending an Indian twist to idiomatic expressions. But his labored utterance was either not so marked as he imagined, or his host was so surprised at meeting a white man so far from civilization that he could not repress his own excitement. At the outset, too, the instinct of hospitality helped to relieve the tension.
“Can I offer you anything in the way of refreshment – some whisky, or tea, or a cigar?” came the courteous inquiry.
“A cigar, by all means. I have not smoked one for so long a time that I have forgotten what it is like.”
“It is pretty evident you have been living among the Indians,” said the other, passing him a cigar-case. “How in the world did you contrive to get lost in these parts? You did not come through Patagonia, I fancy?”
Power took thought before answering. Some half-atrophied emotion stirred within him.
“Patagonia? Is this country Patagonia?” he said at last.
“Yes. Do you mean to say you don’t know that?”
“I had a notion that it was the Argentine. My Indian friends invariably speak of the white inhabitants as Argentinos.”
“But how did you get here?”
“By crossing the Andes.”
“With a party?”
“No, alone.”
His questioner whistled. “By Jove!” he cried, “you had your nerve with you.”
“I couldn’t help myself. I was a prisoner in the hands of a Trans-Andean tribe, and they turned me adrift. I had to win through somehow, or die.”
“What’s your name, anyhow?”
“John Darien Power.”
“Mine’s Sinclair – George Sinclair. Well, Mr. Power, this is a fortunate meeting for both of us. You could never have reached the coast if you had not fallen in with just such an outfit as mine, because there are the devil’s own breeds of Indians prowling about the last hundred and fifty miles of this river. Luckily, they dare not attack forty well-armed men; but, if looks count, they are willing for the job should an opportunity offer. We simply couldn’t secure a guide; so decided to follow the river all the way, especially as it made transport fairly easy, except at the rapids. Now you, on the other hand, can tell us just what we want to know. Is the stream practicable much farther? What sort of country lies between this point and the snow-line?”
“Yes, I can tell you those things, and a good deal more. What is the object of your expedition? Gold?”
Sinclair laughed rather constrainedly. “I suppose that is the bedrock of the proposition,” he said. “A bit of science, a bit of prospecting, a last glimpse at a country which is not marked on any map before I leave Patagonia for good – there you have the scheme in a nutshell.”
“Are you willing to turn back now?”
“No. Why should we? We have come close on three hundred miles; another fifty, or less, should see us close to the frontier of Chile.”
“But you may sacrifice your lives.”
“No Indians can stop us – let me assure you of that, straight away.”
“Won’t you let me mark your maps? I can supply every detail with sufficient accuracy.”
“Allow me to suggest that I am a business man, Mr. Power, and I mean this expedition to pay its way.”
“Ah! It is gold you really have in mind, then? But there is no gold.”
“Now you are talking nonsense. We have found it.”
“You have found alluvial gold. There are few fast-running streams in the world which do not contain gold in that form. The denudation of the Andes is so extraordinarily rapid that it would be a singular fact if this river did not yield float gold. But the metal is not, and cannot be, present in paying quantities. The primary sources of gold are reefs, either in quartz or in metalliferous veins of galena and the various pyrites. There are none of these in the lower Andean range, which is composed almost exclusively of crystalline schist with a slight blend of basalt. I am a mining engineer, Mr. Sinclair, and I know what I am talking about. If you could put the entire southern Cordillera through a mill, you would not secure a pennyweight of gold to the ton.”
Sinclair, of course, could not appreciate the remarkable way in which Power’s tongue loosened in dealing with the familiar jargon of his profession. For the time he was far more concerned with what he deemed a real marvel.
“A mining engineer, and your name is Power! Surely you can’t be the Mr. Power who sailed from San Francisco to Valparaiso on the Panama seven years ago?” he cried.
“I am.”
“But, excuse me, there must be some mistake. My daughter, Marguerite Sinclair, who was on board that vessel, spoke of a Mr. Power; but he was a young man. Of course, time does not stand still for any of us; but this Mr. Power would now be thirty-five, or thereabouts.”
“That is my age.”
“Thirty-five?”
“Yes.”
Sinclair bent forward and peered into his visitor’s eyes; it was difficult to detect any play of expression in the bearded face. “Are you really the man my daughter met on that steamer?” he asked, and there was a note of solemnity, almost of awe, in his voice. This anchorite seemed nearer sixty than thirty-five.
“Yes, I remember her perfectly – a charming girl. She had suffered some injury to her face during an attack by Indians on her father’s ranch. Of course, you are her father?”
“Yes. But, tell me, Mr. Power – have you any notion of the extraordinary appearance you present? You force me to be blunt. You look like a man nearly twice your age.”
“Lend me a scissors and a razor, and I shall remove a decade or two. Remember, I have lived as an Indian for seven years.”
“I’ll do more than that. I can give you some clothes and boots. God bless my soul! how surprised Meg will be! I recollect now she told me that her Mr. Power walked with a limp. But it’s a far cry to Carmen. I – ”
“Carmen, did you say?”
“Yes, why?”
Power had suddenly recalled the name of the stuffy little tramp on which he set forth from Valparaiso. What memories crowded in on him, what a record of suffering and achievement! Seven years! He knew now that his pilgrimage was ended. The great world had thrown wide its gates again. He could go back to his own country, his own people. His sacrifice had been accepted. He was assoilized. He thought of his mother, of Nancy, and tears glistened in his eyes. He believed that some lesion had been lifted off his brain. He looked at the great facts of existence with a new and saner vision. He almost heard a vibrant and majestic voice saying to his spirit, “Go, and sin no more! Thy faith hath made thee whole!”
He rose, and was dimly aware that Sinclair was pressing him to stay. There was so much to discuss yet, so many vital matters to weigh and debate; but he managed to explain that he must depart now, and would return later.
“You don’t understand that you are here on sufferance,” he said. “I had to stretch my domination to the utmost – and I am a king among these Indians – to stop them from attacking you. Your life, and the lives of every man in your party, are not worth a day’s purchase if my influence is weakened. I cannot tell what evil counsel may be given to these wild folk in my absence. If I show myself, and assure them that I am safe, and that you mean to retreat almost at once, they will be satisfied, and bloodshed will be averted.”
Sinclair glanced at him curiously, but did not seek further to prevent his immediate departure.
“You must act as you think best, Mr. Power,” he said amicably; “but I certainly cannot promise to retreat merely because a few wretched Indians bar the path.”
“I will convince you, never fear,” came the prompt assurance.
“But I am not the only skeptic. There are others to consult. I have two partners in this enterprise, and one of them is a mining expert.”
“Leave everything to me, and make no forward move till I come back. You can expect me in a couple of hours.”
He could say no more. He was choking. It was a mere pretense that he must conciliate the Indians, who, he knew, were watching every move in the camp with the eyes of eagles. What he really feared, in that moment of revulsion and self-enlightenment, was that he might break down and cry like a child.
He strode away, aflame with the fire of longing for communion with his fellow-men. The tumult of emotion evoked by contact with the expedition startled and dismayed him; but he had not gone two hundred yards up the valley before a sibilant hiss restored his scattered wits. He was passing an Indian outpost, and the faithful creatures were warning him of their presence. He signed that he was going to the village, and passed on. He had seen no one. Not a leaf moved among the trees; but the watchers were there, and would remain.
Much against the grain, though there was no help for it, he pacified the head men of the tribe by the statement that he must remain in the encampment that night; indeed, he did not purpose leaving the invaders until they had turned on their tracks. He dared not risk telling his “subjects” that he meant to abandon his empire. Their fierce passions were easily aroused, and a prompt massacre of Sinclair and his followers would be the certain result of a fanatical outbreak. Entering his hut, he picked up the “Horæ.” As he did so, a wave of sentiment shook him, because he thought of the poor Spanish priest who had brought that precious volume from Cádiz or Barcelona, and, perchance, gazed at it with eyes glazing in death while he lurked, wounded and starving, in the cave where he had sought shelter from the pitiless savages. Now, if God willed, it might cross the Atlantic again.
He opened the book haphazard, and read:
“In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum!”
Then he sank on his knees, and prayed; for, if ever man had placed soul and body in the keeping of the Almighty, he had.
That evening, master of himself, and ever recovering facility of speech, he reasoned with Sinclair and the two Spaniards who had joined in the adventure. One, a Señor Felice Gomez, though posing as an authority on mines, had to admit that his knowledge was that of the company director and well-informed amateur. They were inclined to scoff at Power’s predictions of disaster; but he wound up with an argument which proved irresistible.
“How much has this enterprise cost you?” he asked.
Sinclair answered readily.
“We have put up twenty thousand paper dollars1 for expenses,” he said. “My share is ten thousand, and my friends stand in five thousand each.”
“Would you be satisfied if you got your money back, with a profit of one hundred per cent?”
“According to you, Mr. Power, and almost you convince me, we shall lose every penny.”
“But, assuming the profit I have named, would such return on your capital send you home well content?”
“Speaking for myself, it would.”
The Spaniards grinned amiably. As a conceit, the notion appealed to them. They were not poor men; but had embarked on the quest largely to sate their curiosity with regard to the unexplored reaches of the Chubut River.
“Good!” said Power. “I give your syndicate my personal undertaking to pay the sum of forty thousand dollars when we reach any place where there is a bank with a New York agent. I really mean what I say,” he went on, seeing the blank incredulity written on three faces. “I am rich enough to table that offer without the slightest chance of failing to make good. Even though I die on the way to the coast, you will have my written undertaking, which will be honored by my bankers. If I survive the journey, a cablegram will convince you of my financial standing. Naturally, you will ask why I behave so generously. Well, there are three reasons: Were it not for your presence here, I might never have had a chance of returning to civilization; so I am disposed to pay liberally for your safe escort, which, to my thinking, has been sent by Providence in my special behalf. That, in itself, should suffice as an explanation. But the remaining motives are almost equally strong. I am sure you are rushing to certain death if you advance another mile up the valley; but, supposing, as you imagine, that your guns open the path, it will be across the dead bodies of a people whom I have learned to like, and among whom I have passed three not unhappy years. Very well! I purchase their lives. All I demand to seal the bargain is your promise to start downstream at daybreak, taking me with you; but leaving here all the pieces of iron, knives, nails, and such like articles you can spare from your equipment. The Indians will find and value them. They have no knowledge of metallic ores. There are hardly any to be found in this locality. It is a dead land, mere shale and rock and crumbling earth, devoid of the riches which alone would make it habitable. What do you say? If you agree to my terms, give me a pen and paper. I suppose I still can write, though I have not held a pen during seven years.”
The man who could tame, and partly civilize, two Indian tribes was not like to fail when called on to subjugate men of his own or a kindred race. The triumvirate yielded. Next day, when the canoes had gone ahead, Power bestrode one of the dozen horses which accompanied the expedition. The rearguard set off at a canter, since a rolling down ran for eight miles to the first portage. As Power rode away with his new friends a long drawn-out, shrill wailing came from the forest. The Indians understood then. Their territory was left unspoiled; but they had lost their wonder-worker. Had they but known it, the “white fool” drew his hand across his eyes to clear away the tears.
For three weeks the horsemen and canoes followed the windings of a river the waters of which were never turbid or blue, but emerald green, except during occasional sunsets, when they became a vivid crimson. Then the party reached Port Madryn, whence a small steamer took its chief members to Carmen, in the Rio Negro Territory. The Spaniards hailed from that place, and Sinclair, who had sold his Chubut ranch, had left his daughter with friends there. There was no cable available; but, by this time, Sinclair and his partners would as soon have distrusted an archbishop’s word as Power’s. Each day he reverted more and more to type; yet he lost nothing of the dignity and air of reposeful strength which his wanderings had conferred. So, when he gave written orders for the various sums due on his bond, they were accepted with the confidence which would have been shown in the certified checks of a state bank.
The vessel had to steam several miles up the Rio Negro (the river is called “black”; but it is green as the Chubut) before touching the wharf at Carmen. News of their coming had preceded them, though no mention had been made of Power, and it was vastly amusing to Sinclair when his daughter, after embracing him affectionately, turned and held out her hand to the brown-skinned stranger.
“Welcome to Patagonia, Mr. Power!” she cried. “I was sure you would come to us some day; though I was told in Valparaiso, three years ago, that you were lost utterly in the depths of the Andes.”
“So you have not forgotten me?” was all that Power could find to say; though he flushed with pleasure at this prompt recognition.
“Forgotten you? Didn’t I tell you I should know you again in twenty years?”
“I am glad to have survived even a third of the time in your memory.”
“Well, please don’t test it so severely again. What have you been doing to yourself? You look like an Indian.”
“Meg,” broke in her father, “I hoped that four months’ residence in a Spanish household would give you a more polite way of expressing yourself.”
“Mr. Power takes that as a compliment, I am sure. When we parted he was running away from the flesh-pots of Egypt – or was it Bison? Evidently he has succeeded in his object. He is lean as a herring. Where did you find him, Dad? Ruling a tribe of Araucanians, I’m certain.”
“If I hadn’t found him, you would never have seen me again, Girly. But we can’t tell the horrible story here on the quay. Take me to a long cane chair, and mix me a whisky and soda. That wretched little tub of a steamer tried to stand on its head last night.”
One thing was evident. Power had convinced his companions of the real danger they had escaped. He had said no word concerning the canyon, while it constituted the Indians’ defense; but it was betraying no secret to make clear its perils during the journey to the coast.
Next day, after breakfast, Sinclair drew him aside, and handed him a sealed envelop.
“Meg objects strongly to the arrangement we entered into, in so far as it affects me,” he explained. “She insists that I return your draft. I was turning the matter over in my own mind, and I was not altogether happy about it. Now I see that she is right.”
“But both of you happen to be wrong,” said Power.
“We’re not. Why in blazes should you pay me? The boot is on the other leg. I owe you my life. Look here, Power, the thing can’t be argued. If it pleases you to let my Spanish friends have their share of the money, I’ll not say a word, one way or the other; but I’ll see you cremated before I cash that draft!”
“Let me defray your out-of-pocket expenses, at any rate.”
“Not a centavo! If you say anything more about it, I’ll get an actuary to calculate my life value, and worry you till you accept a settlement in full.”
“Women invariably take a distorted view of a matter like this,” protested Power.
Sinclair laughed. “Oh, you have discovered that, have you?” he said. “Well, I can’t afford to quarrel with Meg, and her heart is set on your tearing up the draft, Mr. Power.”
The girl herself never mentioned the incident; but, when next they met, Power felt that a slight constraint of which he was sensible in her manner that morning had gone completely.
Sinclair’s affairs in Patagonia were settled before he set out on that long trek into the wilds; but there still remained some odds and ends of business which detained him nearly a month in Carmen. During those placid days Power and Marguerite Sinclair were together constantly. They boated on the Rio Negro, fished in its swift current, rode long miles over the gray and treeless pampas. The girl was a woman now, and, were it not for that cruel disfigurement of one side of her face, a singularly attractive one. She was never dull, never at a loss for a new and original turn to the old topics. Her interests covered a surprisingly wide range. Whether singing Spanish songs to her own accompaniment on a guitar, or discoursing learnedly on the habits of the migratory wild-fowl with which Patagonia abounds, she never failed to acquit herself with vivacious charm. Indeed, the recluse of the Andes could not have been more favored by fortune in the choice of a companion. With sure touch, and a happy blend of raillery and sympathy, she led him back to the gracious intimacies of every-day existence. A keen and discriminating reader of contemporary literature, she set herself the congenial task of filling the immense gap of the years lost out of this remarkable man’s life. On his part, so avid was he of the joys of regained citizenship of the world that he was blithely unaware of the place she filled in his thoughts until the day of parting.
He had traveled with father and daughter to Buenos Aires, whence he cabled to New York, and was placed in possession of ample funds. The Sinclairs were bound for England, and their steamer sailed almost immediately, and the vessel which would take him to New York was timed to start next day.
They lunched together in the Hôtel de l’Europe, Plaza Victoria, and Sinclair had left the younger people for a few minutes while interviewing a lawyer who had charge of certain financial matters in the Argentine. Some chance remark led Power to realize that Marguerite Sinclair’s bright personality would soon be merged with yesterday’s seven thousand years, and the knowledge darkened his new-born optimism as the black portent of a tornado blots out the blue of a summer sky.
It was hardly surprising that the discovery came thus tardily. The philosophical habit of mind induced by constant association with fatalistic Indians was not to be cast off like a disused garment. When each day resembled its predecessor, when the needs of the hour rendered care for the morrow an additional burden, he had trained himself to live, and almost to think, according to savage ethics, and it was with a positive shock that he awoke to the fact that before many hours had sped he would be alone. But, once it had entered his soul, the leaven worked rapidly. They were talking in conventional strain about her father’s plans for the future, which centered around a small sporting estate in Derbyshire, once owned by his family and now in the market, when Power rose suddenly.
“If you have finished luncheon,” he said, “come with me into the gardens across the plaza. We’ll leave word of our whereabouts with the hotel people, so that Mr. Sinclair will not think I have abducted you.”
She paled slightly, and seemed to hesitate, but only for an instant. “Why not?” she said, dropping the white double veil she always wore in public.
Power rather looked for some biting retort when he spoke of abducting her, and her unexpected meekness was somewhat disconcerting. Each was tongue-tied, and they walked away together in silence. A good many eyes followed them as they left the hotel, for the girl’s slender, lissome figure and noticeably elegant carriage would have attracted the attention of more censorious critics than a gathering of Spanish-Americans, while the wealth of brown hair which crowned her shapely head and column-like neck was adequately set off by a smart hat. Power, too, evoked some comment. People who saw him for the first time invariably asked who he was. A man who has twice established an empire, even among Indians, cannot possibly lack distinction, no matter how effectually the outfitting tailor may democratize him.
They entered the gardens, and Power led Marguerite to a seat under a tree whose spreading branches, broad-leafed and flower-laden, supplied grateful shade. If he could have peered beneath that heavy veil, he would have seen that his companion was obviously ill at ease; but there was no trace of nervousness in her voice when she said, with a laugh:
“This, I suppose, is the local Garden of Eden.”
“Why?” he inquired.
“Because we are reclining under a Paradise tree.”
“I don’t see any serpents, and I cannot bring myself to regard you as either a cherub or a seraph.”
“How unkind of you! Here have I been behaving angelically all day, just because you will soon see the last of me, and that is my reward.”
“I believe the sex of angels is a matter of fierce dispute in certain circles. I wouldn’t dare form an opinion, and, just now at any rate, I am vexed by a different problem. If this tree is really the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, its influence will be helpful, because we should be moved to candor. I brought you here to ask you some questions of vital importance to myself. Are you promised to any man in marriage?”
“No. Is it likely?”
Not often did the bitter consciousness of her marred beauty rise thus bluntly to her lips; but she blurted it out now involuntarily. In this supreme moment it came as a protest against the edict of the gods. Even while she trembled in the belief that a happiness she had not dared to think of sanely was about to be vouchsafed to her, she could not restrain her terror lest the disillusionment of her scarred face might cost her the love of the one man on earth she wanted to marry. It was the heartfelt cry of a woman denied her birthright. “Male and female created he them.” The sorry trick of fate which had tarnished the fair tabernacle that enshrined so many gifts had never before exhibited its true malice. In a word, Marguerite Sinclair was a woman, and the great crisis of her life had found her unprepared and nearly hysterical.