Chapter 19

stick in his crop for the remainder of his life; and I shouldn't wonder if it's his hand has been here. Odd, those tracks of a shod horse; four times back and forward! And the last of them, by their look, must have been made as late as yesterday--some time in the early morning, I should say. Beyond the old _tolderia_, downward, they've gone. I wish I'd turned a bit that way as we came up, so as to be sure of it. Well, I'll find that out, when we get back from this pursuit; which I very much fear will prove a wild goose chase."

For a time he lies without stirring, or moving a muscle, on his back, with eyes seemingly fixed upon the stars, like an ancient astrologer in the act of consulting them for the solution of some deep mystery hidden from mortal ken. Then, as if having just solved it, he gives a sudden start, exclaiming:

"_Sangre de Crista_! that's the explanation of all, the whole affair; murder, abduction, everything."

His words, though only muttered, awaken Cypriano, still only half-asleep.

"What is it, Gaspar?" questions the youth.

"Oh, nothing, _senorito_; only a mosquito that took a fancy to stick its bill into the bridge of my nose. But I've given Master _Zancudo_ his quietus; and he won't trouble me again."

Though the gaucho thinks he has at last got the clue to what has been mystifying them, like all skilled tacticians he intends for a time keeping it to himself. So, saying no more, he leaves his young companion to return to his slumbers: which the latter soon does. Himself now more widely awake than ever, he follows up the train of thought Cypriano had interrupted.

"It's clear that Francia has at length found out our whereabouts. I wonder he didn't do so long ago; and have often warned the _dueno_ of the danger we were in. Of course, Naraguana kept him constantly assured; and with war to the knife between the Tovas and Paraguayans, no wonder my poor master was too careless and confident. But something has happened lately to affect their relations. The Indians moving so mysteriously away from their old place shows it. And these shod-tracks tell, almost for sure, that some white man has been on a visit to them, wherever they are now. Just as sure about this white man being an emissary from El Supremo. And who would his emissary be? Who sent on such an errand so likely as _him_?"

The emphasis on the "him" points to some one not yet mentioned, but whom the gaucho has in his mind. Soon, however, he gives the name, saying:

"The scoundrel who bestrode that horse--and a thorough scoundrel too--is Rufino Valdez. Assassin, besides! It's he who has murdered my master. I'd lay my life on it."

After arriving at this conclusion, he adds:

"What a pity I didn't think of this before! If but yesterday morning! He must have passed along the trail going back, and alone? Ah! the chance I've let escape me! Such an opportunity for settling old scores with Senor Rufino! Well, he and I may meet yet; and if we do, one of us will have to stay on the spot where that encounter takes place, or be carried from it feet foremost. I think I know which would go that way, and which the other."

Thus predicating, the gaucho pulls his poncho around his shoulders, and composes himself for sleep; though it is some time before he succeeds in procuring it.

But Morpheus coming to his aid, proves too many for the passions which agitate him; and he at length sinks into a profound slumber, not broken till the curassows send up their shrill cries--as the crowing of Chanticleer--to tell that another day is dawning upon the Chaco.