— If the gauchos have died out, Del Solar yelled at him, it’s because gringo immigrants like you killed them off!
— The defeat of Santos Vega, intoned Adam mysteriously.
A distant strumming of guitars came to the ears of the explorers; a tremor of tearful strings seemed to come wafting on the wind from some distant horizon, snaking through the air like a musical shiver. And suddenly a great hush fell, as though the entire plain were breathlessly listening through a thousand invisible ears. The strains of the mysterious vihuela quickly grew stronger, or nearer, like a song mounted on a galloping horse. Soon a human voice could be heard, interwoven with the thrumming strings. It was a ghostly voice singing dark, unintelligible words that nevertheless pierced the heroes’ souls like the daggers of melancholy; sweet words as of long-ago mornings; lachrymose words to be shed on the tomb of a long-lost love; battle cries like lances erect beneath the noonday sun, or like repressed sobs erupting from the sound chamber of a body or guitar; and a rustic idyll now lost in the South; and the sadness seeping like bitter juice from the plump fruit of southern skies. All this was expressed by the nocturnal canto; and in sympathy the domed ether hummed, the stars drew nearer, the wild grass trembled, and the orb grew silent. At one moment, the song exploded like a tempest overhead; the travellers looked up in dread and saw high in the Eastern sky the figure of a rider on his mount, shimmering as if forged from burnished metal. His arms cradled a vihuela, which though mute seemed the source or centre of the marvellous song. A unanimous cry of recognition flew forth from seven throats:
— Santos Vega, the payador!
Thus invoked, the phantasmal horseman stopped and turned to the men of Saavedra, who waited expectantly. But the ghost’s face, momentarily brightening, clouded over once more. His noble head turned in the night, tracing a long, slow movement of negation. Then, spurring his mount, the apparition galloped away to the west.35 When the adventurers were about to take off after him in pursuit, a spiteful laugh rang out behind their backs.
– ’Tain’t no use, gentlemen! came a voice. That good ol’ boy won’t be singin’ no more here on earth!
Turning around, the men saw a phosphorescent character, ridiculously decked out gaucho-style, standing there in an insolent sort of attitude, his craggy and malignant face inspiring an apprehension impossible to gainsay. He was sporting a wildly embroidered chiripá, a thick leather belt studded with more gold coins than a Basque milkman’s moneybox, a silk shirt, and a great knife that seemed to skewer him like a roasting spit.
— And why won’t Santos Vega sing? Del Solar asked him, moved to the marrow of his bones.
— Go on with ya! responded the figure. I licked him fair and square, guitar against guitar.
A lightbulb suddenly lit up in the heads of the expeditionaries.
— Juan Sin Ropa!
Looking back and forth between the group and the troubador fading into the distance, the figure laughed again:
— At yer service, pardners, he assented in his odious, sarcastic drawl.
But Adam Buenosayres, full of wrath, shouted right in his face.
— You lie, varmint!
And turning to the group, he thundered:
— This man is no good old boy! He’s the devil incarnate!36
Would that he had never said it! When he heard that name, the figure commenced contorting and sizzling like a denizen of hell, and a terrible stench of sulphur and gunpowder filled the air. As the startled heroes backed away, they noticed other sinister clues confirming the identity of the spectral gaucho: his eyes flashed like two electrical storms at night; his broad-brimmed hat sported an ominous cock’s feather; worse still, his blunt-toed calfskin boots formed two cloven hooves. It was enough to justify any amount of alarm.
— Cross, Devil! Cross, Devil! Franky began to exorcize, tracing rapid crosses in the air.
Juan Sin Ropa let out a vaudeville guffaw.
— Now don’t get sceer’t on me, fellers! he said. I didn’t come to buy yer souls. Y’already sold ’em!
But the astrologer Schultz was not about to have the wool pulled over his eyes. The demon there before them, he said with almost aggressive disdain, was no imperial Lucifer; nor was he Prince Beelzebub, nor the Grand Duke Astarot, nor Prime Minister Lucifuge, nor General Satanachia, nor Lieutenant Fleurety, nor Brigadier Sargantanás, nor Field Marshal Nebiros. No, he was but a lowly tipstaff called Anthrax, a kitchen boy, a poor devil without a pot to piss in — the wretch! So where did he get off with his talk of buying souls? When Juan Sin Ropa muttered something between his teeth, Schultz told him he was to answer any questions put to him, and threatened to stuff him into a bottle of Scotch whisky if he refused. Seeing him nice and tame now, Del Solar got up the courage to ask a question:
— What really happened in your payada with Vega? How did you beat him?
— He was an innocent, still wet behind the ears! replied Juan Sin Ropa. Easiest job the Boss ever giv’ me. Well, we duked it out, verse for verse, and Vega wasn’t half bad. But, hey, us devils’ve got the edge when it comes to pickin’ guitar — tougher fingernails, eh.
— So what did the Boss stand to gain by defeating a poor gaucho? Adam Buenosayres wanted to know.
— Don’t kid yerselves, that there gaucho was a bit of tricky business, Juan Sin Ropa assured them. What with his lack of ambition, his down-to-earth simplicity, and his guitar and lil’ ol’ horse, we were runnin’ the risk of a new age of innocence bein’ established in these here parts, just when the Boss was on the eve of universal victory and the nations of the world was gettin’ down on all fours to kiss his royal upite. (Here, Juan Sin Ropa gave himself a pat on the behind.)
From the shadows came a snicker of incredulity, and the pipsqueak Bernini spoke up.
— Baloney! he laughed. Everybody knows the legend means something else. In reality, Santos Vega is barbarism and Juan Sin Ropa is progress; it’s about progress defeating barbarism.37
— Good old pipsqueak! celebrated Franky Amundsen in treacherous adulation.
— Am I right? Bernini asked him.
— As usual!
— Was that a pipspeak just spoke? inquired Juan Sin Ropa, incredulous. If he was a few inches taller, I’d teach him the word “Progress” is the name I use when I’m travellin’ incognito.
At this point Del Solar, the folklore expert, intervened to set the record straight on the gaucho myth under discussion. In his view, it should be understood quite literally.
— Juan Sin Ropa, he declared, is the naked gringo who defeated Santos Vega in a fight our countryman didn’t understand: the struggle for life.
No sooner had he said this than Juan Sin Ropa began the first of his mutations. The flamboyant gaucho dissolved, and there appeared in his stead a big, burly, red-headed fellow wearing a checked shirt and trousers, and yellow boots. Completing his get-up were a gaudy knife and a riding whip, its grip almost entirely adorned with silver. The adventurers felt a wave of sympathy as they immediately recognized the smiling image of the Cocoliche.38
— Sono venuto a l’Argentina per fare l’America, he declared. E sono in America per fare l’Argentina.39
— Aha! cried Del Solar. Just as I thought! Aren’t you the gringo tavern owner who robbed the local folks of their land with your sharp practice and mortgages?
Cocoliche stretched out his arms to display his big, calloused hands.