The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America, R. M. Ballantyne [world of reading .txt] 📗

from the effects of his fall, could see plainly enough that neither troops nor Indians were to be seen—only a mighty sea of waving grass with a clear horizon all round, and nothing to break the monotony of the vast solitude save their two horses browsing quietly a few yards off.

“Quashy, it strikes me that we shall be lost,” said Lawrence, with anxious look.

“’Smy opinion, massa, dat we’s lost a’ready.”

“Come,” returned Lawrence, rising with some difficulty, “let’s mount and be off after them. Which way did they go—that is, at what point of the compass did they disappear?”

Quashy’s face assumed the countless wrinkles of perplexity. He turned north, south, east, and west, with inquiring glances at the blank horizon, and of course gave a blank reply.

“You see, massa,” he said, apologetically, “you hoed a-rollin’ ober an’ ober in sitch a way, dat it rader confused me, an’ I forgits to look whar we was, an’ den I was so awrful cut up for fear you’s gone dead, dat I t’ink ob nuffin else—an’ now, it’s too late!”

“Too late indeed,” rejoined Lawrence, with a feeling of bitterness, “nevertheless, we must ride somewhere. Catch our horses, Quashy, and I will wait for you and think.”

Having applied himself to that most difficult process—thinking out a plan with insufficient material for thought—our hero resolved to ride in what he supposed—judging by the position of the sun—was an easterly direction, hoping to strike the trail of the pursuers and fugitives before night.

“You see, Quashy,” he remarked, as they galloped swiftly over the flowering plains, “we are almost sure to find the trail in a short time; for although neither you nor I have had much experience in following trails in the wilderness, we have got some sort of idea—at least I have, from books—of how the thing should be done, and even the most stupid white man could scarcely ride across the track of several hundred horsemen without observing it.”

“Das true, massa. Eben the stoopidist black man am equal to dat. But what if you’s mistook de d’rection, an’ we’s ridin’ west instead ob east?”

“Why then, Quashy, we’d discover our mistake sooner or later by arriving at the Andes,” returned Lawrence, with a bland smile.

“Hi! I don’ mean west,” returned the negro, with a reciprocal grin; “you couldn’t be so mistook as dat—but s’pose you’se go souf by mistake?”

“Why, then the straits of Magellan would bring us up.”

“Ah—well, massa, I dun know whar de straits ob Majillum is, but it would be a comfort to be brought up anywhar, for den you couldn’t go no farder. An’ if we’s on de right track, we’re sure to come to de Atlantic at last, eben if we miss de Injins an’ de sodjers altogidder. Das pleasant to t’ink on—i’n’t it?”

Apparently Lawrence did not think it remarkably pleasant, for he paid no further attention to the remarks of his companion, but proceeded along with a profound, almost stern, gravity, and with his eyes glancing keenly right and left after the most approved manner of the Indian brave or the backwoods scout.

No track or trail, however, of any kind was to be seen. For more than an hour they sped along, down in the flowering hollows, over the grassy waves steering carefully past the riddled townships of the biscachos, now and then diverging a little to avoid some larger shrubs or tangled masses of herbage, sometimes uttering a word of comment on passing objects, and occasionally craning their necks on observing some buzzard or other bird on the horizon, but never drawing rein until they came to a rising ground, from the highest point of which they could have a commanding view of the region all round. Here they pulled up.

“Quashy,” said Lawrence, in a deep, solemn tone, “we are indeed lost.”

“It ’pears to me you’s right, massa.”

“And yet we must be on the right track,” continued Lawrence, as if communing with himself, “unless, indeed, the Indians may have changed their direction and turned off to the south.”

“Or de nort’,” suggested Quashy, in the same self-communing tone.

“Come, there’s nothing for it but to push on,” cried Lawrence, galloping away.

“Das so. Nuffin else,” said Quashy, following.

And so they continued on for another hour or more in grim silence, after which they rode, as it were, in grim despair—at least Lawrence did so, for he felt bitterly that he was now separated, perhaps for ever, from Manuela, and that he could render no further aid in rescuing the captives from the savages. As for the negro, despair was not compatible with his free and easy, not to say reckless, happy-go-lucky temperament. He felt deeply indeed for his young master, and sympathised profoundly; but for himself he cared little, and thought of nothing beyond the interests of the passing hour. Possibly if both horses had broken their legs and Lawrence had broken his neck, Quashy might have given way to despair, but it is probable that nothing less severe could have overcome his buoyant spirit.

At last the sun began to descend behind the Andes, which were by that time turned into a misty range of tender blue in the far, far distance. The steeds also showed signs of declining power, for, in his anxiety to overtake the troops, Lawrence had pressed them rather harder than he would otherwise have done.

Opportunely at that time they came in sight of a small clump of bushes, like a low islet in the sea of grass.

“We will camp here,” said Lawrence, brusquely, as he pulled up and dismounted. “The game is up. We are fairly lost, that’s quite clear, and it is equally clear that we and our horses must rest.”

He spoke in a tone of cynical joviality, as if defying his misfortunes. The simple-minded Quashy, accepting it as genuine, said, “All right, massa,” in a tone of cheerful satisfaction, as he slid off his steed and set about preparing the encampment.

If our hero’s mind had been more at ease, it is probable that he would have enjoyed his surroundings greatly, for, although lost on the wide Pampas, they had not begun yet to suffer physically from that misfortune. Their wallets were still supplied with food sufficient for at least three full meals, the weather was serene, and the situation, viewed in one aspect, was exceedingly romantic. From the top of the rising ground where the fire was burning and the steaks of mare’s flesh roasting, the complete circle of the horizon could be seen, and the yellow-brown grass of the Pampas, at that time about a foot high, rolled with a motion that strangely resembled the waves of the liquid ocean itself.

But poor Lawrence was incapable of enjoying the beauties of nature just then. After one long, anxious look round to see if any object should present itself which might raise the faintest echo of hope, he returned to the camp, and sat down on a mound with a profound sigh.

“Chee’ up, massa,” said Quashy, raising his face, which glittered with his efforts to blow the fire into a glow. “You’s git her in de long run.”

“Get who?” demanded Lawrence, in surprise, not unmingled with a touch of severity, for this was the first time that his humble follower had dared to touch on the theme that was uppermost in his mind.

With a strange compound of what is well named “cheek” and humility, Quashy replied, “Her, you know, de Inca princess—Manuela. It’s all right!”

“And pray, Quashy, how do you know that it’s all right, or that I want anything to be all right. In short, what business have you to presume to—to—”

“Oh, it’s all right, massa,” replied the negro, with a wink—and what a wink that was!—“I knows all about it, bein’ zactly in de same state wid Sooz’n.”

Lawrence sought refuge from conflicting feelings in a loud laugh, and asked what hope Quashy could by any possibility entertain of ever seeing Susan again—she having, as it were, vanished from off the earth.

“Oh, nebber fear,” was Quashy’s comfortable reply. “I’s sure to find Sooz’n, for she no can git along widout me, no more nor I can git along widout her. We’s sure to find one anoder in de long run.”

Envying his man’s unwavering faith, Lawrence sat for some time silently contemplating the gorgeous sunset, when an exclamation drew his attention to the opposite side of the landscape.

“Look, massa. Suffin movin’ dar.”

There was indeed a moving speck—or rather two specks—on the horizon. As they drew nearer it was soon seen to be a Gaucho of the Pampas in full chase of an ostrich. They did not come straight towards our wanderers, but passed within half a mile of them. The picturesque hunter, bending over his steed’s neck, with his scarlet poncho streaming behind him, and the bolas whirling round his head, was so eager in the pursuit that he either did not observe, or did not mind, the thin smoke of the camp-fire. The giant bird, stretching its long legs to the utmost and using its wings as additional propellers, seemed quite able to hold its own and test the powers of the horse. Gradually pursuer and pursued passed out of the range of vision, and were seen no more.

“Just as well,” remarked Lawrence, as he afterwards sat eating his mare-steak by the star-and-fire light, “that fellow might be one of the many robbers who are said to infest the plains; and although we could no doubt have protected ourselves from him, he might have brought a swarm of his comrades about our ears.”

“Yes, massa,” was Quashy’s brief reply, for he was engaged at that moment with a large and tough mouthful.

A long ride, and a hearty though frugal supper, disposed both master and man for rest that night. When the last gleam of sunset had faded from the western sky, and the last scraps of mare’s flesh had vanished from their respective bones; when the stars were twinkling with nocturnal splendour, and all nature was sinking to repose, Lawrence and Quashy lay down on the grass, spread their ponchos above them, pillowed their weary heads upon their saddles, and slept profoundly.