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

“Come, Quashy!” cried Lawrence, leaping up and giving the negro a rough shake that brought him instantly to a sitting and blinking condition. “Get up. We must be off. Saddle the horses—the hor— why, where are the horses?”

He finished the sentence in tones of anxiety, for no horses were visible.

Bounding into the patch of bushes, on the edge of which they had passed the night, Lawrence ran through it hastily, followed by his man, who had shaken off lethargy in a moment.

The patch was small. Moreover, the shrubs were barely tall enough to conceal a horse. In five minutes it became quite certain that the horses were not there.

From the highest point of the rising ground they had a clear view of the plains all round, but after the keenest scrutiny not a speck resembling a horse was to be seen. The searchers looked at each other in dismay.

“Lost! and our horses gone!” said Lawrence, in a voice which excess of alarm had reduced to a sort of low, hoarse whisper.

“Most awrful!” murmured Quashy.

Lawrence cleared his throat and paused, while his sympathetic servant gazed.

“Now, Quashy,” he said, “it seems to me quite impossible that our animals could have strayed in a few hours quite out of such an enormous circle of vision. They must be somewhere about, though we can’t see them.”

“Yes, massa, dey must be somewhar, as you say.”

“Well, then, it follows that they must be concealed in one of the few clumps of bushes that lie around us. So we must search these instantly, for our only hope lies in finding the horses.”

“Das so, massa.”

Even our negro’s elastic spirit seemed to be subdued to some extent by the prospect before them; for, apart from the fact that the bushy islets in the grassy sea were scarcely high enough to entirely conceal so large an object as a horse, they were scattered about at such immense distances from each other that a complete search of them implied toilsome labour for at least the whole of that day. Lawrence felt, however, that it had to be done, and arranged that his man should search towards the east, while he should take the west. To prevent the risk of their losing the mound on which they stood, one of their ponchos was thrown over the top of the highest bush and fixed there as a signal. So eager were they to begin, that both started off without a thought of breakfast.

It is not necessary to follow the steps of each. In regard to Lawrence, it may suffice to say that he wandered during the whole of that sultry day over the boundless plain, wearily but persistently examining the few bush-islets that lay to the west of their bivouac without finding a trace of the lost steeds. As the sun began to decline towards the east he gave up in despair, and, with weary limbs and something like wolfish hunger, returned towards the rendezvous.

Very different had been the experience of his sable servant.

Starting off, as we have said, at the same time with his master, Quashy found the two horses, after a two hours’ search, quietly grazing in a grassy hollow. A low shrub-covered mound lying close to this hollow intervened between it and the spot where our adventurers had spent the night, thus effectually concealing the lost steeds from view.

The instant Quashy made the discovery he ran to the nearest elevation on the plain with the intention of shouting the news to his master, but by that time Lawrence was two or three miles away on the other side of the bivouac, quite beyond the range of sight and hearing.

Quashy, therefore, ran back to the hollow with the intention of catching the horses, mounting his own, and driving the other before him to the camp.

And now began that interesting but somewhat exhausting and heart-breaking process which may be styled coquetting with a free horse.

Full of glad enthusiasm, the negro ran towards his own steed, holding out his right hand, and exclaiming, “Come along, Ole Scrubby.”

He had named the horse Ole Scrubby owing to some sort of facetious perversity of his own temperament, for the horse, instead of being “ole,” was quite young, and, far from being scrubby, it was a remarkably fine animal.

“Come now, Ole Scrubby,” repeated the man, “we’s got no time to waste. D’ee hear?”

Evidently it heard, for, after allowing its master to advance within three feet of it, and even putting out its nose to smell his black hand, it gave a snort, turned round, tossed up its heels, and trotted away. Stopping short suddenly it turned again and looked at its master with a high head, as if to say, “There! what think you of that?”

“You ole scoundril,” growled the negro, with an injured look, “di’n’t I say we’s got no time to waste? eh! Come, now. Das enuff o’ your fun.”

He had again approached to within three feet or so, and again the playful steed had protruded its nose and even touched his hand, but before that hand could grasp the halter, tail and heels were in the air, and away it went a second time.

Indignation, intensified to the uttermost, sat on Quashy’s countenance. “Scrubs,” he said, solemnly—modifying the name a little, as he became more serious—“you nebber doo’d dat before! Come, sar, you ’bey orders, an’ stan’ still.”

But the horse refused to obey orders, and declined to stand still. His master began to lose temper—if we may so speak of one who only became a little less amiable than usual. Under the influence of the condition, however, whatever it was, he became unjust, and began to call his horse names.

“What! you not ’bey orders? you ole screw—you unnat’ral villin—you obs’nit lump o’ hoss-flesh! Stan’ still, I say!”

Need we say that the horse refused to stand still?

Again, and again, and over again, the negro tried to lay hands on the animal, and as often did he fail. Quashy, however, was not to be easily beaten. His was a resolute and persevering nature; but the misfortune on that occasion was that he had to do with a creature possessed of greater resolution and perseverance than himself. He spent hours over the effort. He coaxed the horse. He wheedled it. He remonstrated with and reproved it. He tried the effect of the most endearing entreaties, and assurances of personal esteem. Losing—no, becoming less amiable, he flew round to the other extreme, and accused it of ingratitude, indefensible even in an ass. Then he sought to bribe it with offers of free forgiveness. After that he tried to frighten it with threats of the most painful and every way horrible consequences; but whatever effect all these varied influences might have had upon the horse’s mind, the one unvarying effect on its body was to send its tail and heels towards the sky, while it neighed joyously and trotted around. Poor Quashy went up to it smilingly—after that, frowningly; he cringed towards it; he advanced straightforwardly; he sidled slily; he ran at it; he rushed at it; he bounced at it; he yelled at it; he groaned at it; he perspired after it; he went nearly mad over it, and, finally, he sat down before it, and glared in deadly silence in its innocent face!

Then the unfortunate man, having spent a very considerable part of the day thus, bethought him of trying to catch the other horse, but with it he was also unsuccessful—indeed, the failure was even more emphatic, for Lawrence’s steed refused to let him come within even hopeful distance of it.

At last, in the profoundest state of despair to which he was ever known to have sunk, he returned to camp. Lawrence had got there before him, saw him coming, and advanced to meet him.

“Well, Quashy, I have failed,” he said, with a sigh.

“So’s I,” returned Quashy, with a growl.

“This losing of our horses,” remarked Lawrence, “is the worst that could have befallen us.”

“No, massa,” said the negro, with more of sulkiness—or less of amiability—than he had exhibited since they first met on the western side of the Andes, “breakin’ our legs would be wuss—smashin’ our necks would be wusser still. But de hosses is not lost. Dey’s on’y spunkerblued.”

“How? What d’you mean?”

“Dey’s down dar,” returned the negro, pointing with his finger, “down in dat holler—spunkerblued.”

“Not killed, I hope,” asked Lawrence, anxiously.

“Oh no, massa, on’y spunkerblued—stuffed to de muzzle wid deir own self-will.”

Lawrence received this explanation with a light laugh. “Come,” he said, quickly, “lead the way, Quash, and I’ll show you how to get them out of the spunkerblues.”

Comforted and reassured by his master’s hearty tone and manner, the negro led the way to the spot where he had spent such a busy day.

Now, we do not know whether we have made it obvious to the reader that Lawrence Armstrong’s kindliness of nature embraced not only the human race but the whole animal kingdom. At all events it is true that wherever he came in contact with the lower animals he managed by some species of fascination to gain their affections. The mode of fascination began, no doubt, with their stomachs, but this does not alter the fact. Among other creatures Lawrence had gained the affections of Quashy’s steed, and also of Manuela’s and Pedro’s horses, as well as his own, by means of sugar. With this simple appliance he went into the hollow, and held out his hand.

“Come, Ole Scrubby,” he cried, using Quashy’s words.

With a cheerful neigh the rebellious one trotted up, received the sugar, and suffered himself to be led once more into servitude.

“Even among the brutes, Quash,” he remarked, as he patted the nose of his own steed, “we are meant to ‘overcome evil with good.’ Come, we must spend another night here, for it is too late to start off now; besides, I am tired out, and starving.”

“Massa,” returned Quashy, as they mounted, “I’s done up to dat extent, an’ so hungry, I could sleep on prickly pears, an’ heat my wittles raw.”

In this condition of body and mind they galloped back to camp, and took particular care that the horses should not again stray.

Next morning, after breakfasting on the remains of their food, they mounted, and, taking the sun as their guide, headed away eastward at full gallop.

Silently and steadily for two hours or more they swept along over the Pampas waves, turning aside only a little once or twice to avoid ground that had been riddled and rendered unsafe by the biscachos.

As noon approached Quashy gave a shout, and pointed to the horizon ahead of them, where living objects of some kind were seen moving along.

“Ostriches,” said Lawrence.

“Dey’s a noo kind ob ostriches wid four legs,” returned the negro, “an’ wid peepil on deir backs.”

“I believe you are right. A party of mounted men, apparently. Come, this is well. Whoever they are we shall at least be able to gather some information from them, and, at the worst, we can follow them to some inhabited spot.”

“True, massa, an’ if dey’s rubbers we kin fight dem.”

On drawing near they found that the riders belonged to a family of Gauchos. There were six of them—all fine-looking fellows, clad in the graceful, though ragged costume of the Pampas. One of their number was a little boy of about five years of age, who rode his horse with all the elegance and ease of a Spanish grandee, though only about the size of a large monkey.

They turned out to be honest and friendly men, who said that they were returning home after assisting in a successful chase after Indians.

Had they been assisted by troops in the chase, Lawrence asked, eagerly.

Yes, they had—troops under a tall, white-haired colonel, and the captives had been rescued, the savages scattered, and the soldiers had gone off in the direction of Buenos Ayres.

“So, Quashy, they’ve managed the job without our assistance,” said Lawrence, on hearing this. “Now we must spur after the troops as hard as our