thescenery, and that I have already noted; and great events were few andfar between, so that only a few impressions remain recorded on thetablets of my memory.
I will never forget our quiet camp life of an evening, when the tentswere raised, and we settled down for enjoyment. Sometimes even yet,when sleepless in bed of a night I allow my mind to revert to them, andthey never fail to woo me to sweet and dreamless slumber.
The dinner was, of course, _the_ great event of the evening, and it waswonderful how well Pedro cooked that meal, considering the few things athis command. Lawlor and he were our servants in a manner of speaking,but immediately after dinner they joined the group around the camp fire,and there we sat chatting and telling stories till ten o'clock or past.
Every one had something to tell, and Castizo, though full of adventurousstories and reminiscences himself, never failed to draw "yarns," assailors call them, from others.
Even Jill and I found our tongues, and told Castizo about the littleescapades of our schoolboy days. He listened to these, I think, farmore eagerly than he did to the wilder exploits of Ritchie, Lawlor, andPedro.
He laughed heartily over our piratical experiences, running with, orbeing run away with by the hulk, and firing our pistols at theflag-ship.
"Your sister Mattie," I remember him saying one evening, "must be adarling child, and as full of spirit and fun as a young puma."
"She is all that," "She is all that," said Jill and I together.
It used to amuse Castizo to hear my brother and me, when mutuallyexcited, speak thus together in one breath and in the same words. Hewould laugh, and then say--
"You boys seem to be animated with but one spirit between you."
"One spirit is quite enough for Jill and me," "One spirit is quiteenough for Jack and me."--this would be our answers.
It was not very often that Castizo was in the humour to tell us a story;but when we did get him to consent, we had descriptions of the mostthrilling adventures, both by sea and land, that it is possible toimagine.
"Do," I ventured to say once, "do the senora, your wife, and thesenorita--"
"Dulzura," said Peter.
"Miss you greatly, when from home?"
A strange change came over his countenance. From happiness and mirth itsuddenly changed to melancholy the most acute. I felt sorry immediatelyI had spoken, and hastened to say--
"My dear friend, I have hurt your feelings; pray pardon mythoughtlessness."
"Nay, nay," he made haste to reply; "it is nothing. But my wife isgone. If ever angel lived and breathed on earth, it was Magdalena. Herdeath was to me an abiding sorrow. But I seem to see her and feel herpresence even yet, and she is often with me when I am alone."
This gave me the clue to what we had considered a mystery, namely,Castizo's great fondness for spending a portion of almost every nightall alone out in the Pampas. Whether it rained or blew, in factwhatsoever the weather was like, Castizo always went out. This habit hecommenced, as I have already shown, when we first started, when he rodetwo lonesome days and nights after us; and the habit he kept up till thelast.
But Castizo was always willing to oblige us with a song. He had asplendid voice, and sang as well in English as in Spanish or Chilian.
Pedro's stories were also well worth listening to. His experiences hadbeen many and varied; but, alas! many of them were, to say the least,very hazy, and there was a deal in the history of his life far too darkto tell. Yet he was a faithful fellow, and would any day go throughfire and water to oblige us.
Peter never had a story to tell. When asked to "spin us a yarn" hewould tap his clarionet, and say, with a smile--
"I tell all my stories, like the Arcadian shepherds, through my pipe."
"Well, then, play," Castizo would remark.
"Yes, play," Jill would add emphatically; "our cacique commands you."
"All right, Greenie dear," Peter would reply, and play forthwith.
I do not think I ever heard sweeter melody anywhere than that whichPeter discoursed on his pipe, as he called it, around the camp fire onthe lonely Pampas.
Some of the Indians would be sure to come from their toldos, and drawnear our door, whenever Peter began to play, especially Prince Jeeka andhis favourite wife, Nadi.
They were invariably asked in, and just as invariably did poor Nadibring with her some sewing to do, generally in the shape of a few piecesof guanaco skin, which she was sewing together to make a roba or mantlefor her husband or herself.
Very gentle, quiet, and amiable was Nadi, and bound up in her child andnoble husband. I say "noble" advisedly; for all the time we knew him hewas always the "prince," generous, kind to his wife and child, brave andunselfish in the extreme. And yet they told me that he had in his timedone some terrible deeds, and had even with his own hand slain thecousin of his wife Nadi. When I looked at Jeeka, I could not find it inmy heart to believe this.
Nadi used to sing. It was more a wail than anything else; though whiledoing so she used to nod her head, and smiles would steal over her darkbut pretty face, while her eyes sparkled with excitement and fun. Herhusband would join in the chorus, as if he, too, enjoyed it. PerhapsCastizo and Pedro knew what it was all about; I am sure none of the restof us ever did.
Sometimes Jill, or Peter, and I used to go over to the toldos of theIndians. We always took with us a bit of tobacco, and sometimes alittle bag of flour. We generally found them lazing in groups, smokingand playing cards or dice. But as soon as ever their own cacique,Jeeka, gave the word, all playing was almost instantly stopped, and soonafter they had rolled their mantles more tightly round them, and goneoff to sleep.
In the morning before the start, Jeeka invariably helped his wife intothe saddle; then she, with her child and the other two women, rodeleisurely on.
To be alone in the desert, is to be alone with God; and every one of ussoon came to follow the habit of Castizo, and retire nightly a littleway from the camp, there to commune with our Father above. Like as inthe old, old times, Jill and I invariably went together, knelt together,and returned together.
Jeeka was a strange being. He was clever, for he could not only speakSpanish but tolerably good English, and he could think.
"What you go out for," he said to me one morning, "last night?"
"To speak with the Great Good Spirit," I replied. "He who made allthings, and who keeps us in life and free from danger. Do you not speakwith the Great Good Spirit?"
"Hum-m-m. Sometime. I think there is one, two, Great Spirit."
"Yes, a Spirit of Evil, and a Great Good Spirit."
"Hum-m-m. I sometime speak the one for good. Sometime I speak theother."
"That is not right, Jeeka. We are told only to pray to the Great GoodSpirit."
"You told? Who tell you?"
I was getting out of my depth now, so I put him off for the present.
"Some day soon," I said, "Jill, my brother, and I, will tell you all thestrange story of the world."
"You tell Nadi, my wife, too?"
"Yes, we will tell you both, and you shall tell your tribe."
"Hum-m-m. Good!"
Next minute Jeeka had shaken off all concern and religious feeling, andwas addressing his men in loud stentorian tones as to the duties of theday before us. For a great hunt was on the tapis.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
THE "MURDER TREE"--WILD AND EXCITING SPORT--JILL AND THE PUMA--HOSTILEINDIANS.
This was to be a memorable day in the history of our adventures, fortroubles began that we did not see the end of for many a long monthafterwards.
We were now in a splendid hunting district; herds of guanacos had beenseen, with innumerable ostriches, besides animals of various kinds.
We had even noticed some wild horses in the distance, but they hadevidently sniffed danger from afar, for they speedily drew off, anddisappeared to the nor'ard in a cloud of dust.
Very early in the morning we crossed a river. I am unable at this dateto give the name o
f it, but think it must have been some tributary ofthe now distant Rio Santa Cruz or of the Chico.
We Englishmen were all tolerably good horsemen now, thanks to Jeeka, whohad given us lessons, and thanks to our good steeds themselves. Theywere wonderfully well trained. Peter and Lawlor were the worst riders,and got many a tumble and shaking; but instead of bolting when theirriders fell off, the horses simply stood and looked at them, as much asto say: "What fun you can find in tumbling off our backs in thathiggledy-piggledy way, we utterly fail to discover."
An accident of this kind caused the greatest merriment among theIndians. They waved their spears in the air, and shouted with laughter.Even gentle Nadi clapped her hands, and cried "Engleese! Engleese!"She meant, of course, that there was nothing too eccentric for anEnglishman to do, for the notion