The Indians were enjoying the exercise. As they rode by, they shouted to each other, but unintelligibly to him; this was the nearest thing to real laughter this melancholy people could achieve. Then a few of them dismounted and settled down in the grass to drink from small bottles; Clarke thought it was water and went over to them. Unfortunately, it was some liquor or other. He lay down for a while. Repetido was bathed in sweat, his own legs were soaking from the horse, and he himself had sweated profusely. He took off his hat and covered his face with it, lying flat on his back. The Indians’ cries came from different sides and distances, seeming to follow a pattern, however mobile and changing. The Indians who had been drinking sped off again. It was as though after snatching a rest concealed from the others, they were now returning to their duty; but where had they been hidden? In sight of everyone? As Clarke continued to lie there, he began to feel that he himself was concealed, although the area the Indians were riding over had not changed. When he remounted, Repetido sprang off again, with more enthusiasm than his rider. But it is common knowledge that horses love to work up a sweat. Clarke had not completed a couple of sweeps before he heard a great tumult among the Indians. He thought they must have caught a hare, but it was not that. The cries were of alarm, of recrimination. They were all gathered together, screeching in a dreadful manner. Intrigued, Clarke went to see. Some riders headed like a streak of lightning for the encampment. When Clarke reached the other excited Indians, he gaped at them open-mouthed, unable to make out what was going on. He had never seen them so stirred up. They were making such a din he couldn’t make out a word of what they were saying. Suddenly the ones bearing lances came toward him, with threatening gestures. Seriously threatening, Clarke realized with a horrible sense of shock that paralyzed the beating of his heart. Until this moment, everything in his relation with the Indians had been provisional, abstract, tentative. Even the courtesy they had shown him was in some sense preliminary. Suddenly everything had become serious — deadly serious. “They’re going to run me through,” Clarke thought as he gulped with fear, staring at the bamboo lances. The worst thing was not to have the remotest idea of what it was all about, or what he had to do with it. Yet they did not follow through on their intention to kill him. They shouted things at him which, in the confusion of his mental state, he was unable to decipher. They were brandishing their lances a few inches from his chest. They must have understood each other though, because after a brief shouted discussion one group shot off toward the east. It was when they started shouting again that Clarke finally realized what had happened: Cafulcurá had disappeared. His jaw dropped in astonishment. He was trying to work out what few words he could say, some kind of expression of regret, when all the Indians’ heads turned in the direction of their village, from where a bedraggled procession was approaching at full tilt. His own group headed toward them, forcing Clarke to accompany them at walking pace. What lungs those savages had! They did not stop shouting for a moment. But how could the chieftain have disappeared? It seemed impossible, on this panoptic plain. Although on closer reflection, there was nothing easier, if at every moment, depending on the position of the observer, there was another person just below the horizon. It should be borne in mind, Clarke thought, that the natural habitat of these races was in the mountains, where hiding places abounded; it was no surprise therefore that they should reproduce that scenery by multiplying the only element that the flat plains offered them, namely the horizon line. At any rate, Clarke could understand why the bodyguards were so nervous, if the old man had been snatched thanks to the simple expedient of lying in wait for him below the horizon. No “hare” could have been so easily caught. But who could it have been? He realized they had been keeping the details of their political problems from him, even though it was true that he had not asked them any questions either. And why did they put the blame on him? He tried to remember what he had been doing a moment before all this: he had been stretched out in the grass, resting, feeling good. Not much of an alibi! The sun fell vertically on bodies seething with frustration. The horses snorted in disgust, deprived of their exercise.
Among those heading out toward them were the chief shamans and the entire council of ministers. Their faces bore such expressions of dismay that they looked ugly and menacing. There was some heated discussion on horseback, then the first practical decision they took was to send Clarke back to the encampment under guard. On their way, they passed several groups of warriors hurtling off at top speed to the scene of the disappearance. They shut Clarke up in a tent along with a perplexed and furious Gauna, and left two savages inside the tent and another pair outside to guard them.
“What’s got into these lunatics?” the tracker asked him.
“Don’t shout at me, I’ve had more than enough of that.”
Clarke was only just beginning to get over his bewilderment. The first thing he did was to sit down on the leather rug, take his hat off, undo the buckle of his uncomfortable belt, and ask for a glass of water. The Indians paid him no attention. Gauna went to sit by Clarke, and stared at him with his crazy paranoid look.
“It’s incredible,” began the Englishman, “the way events have started speeding up.”
At that moment the Indians outside called to their friends in the tent, and they went out. The two prisoners (Clarke holding up his trousers with one hand) crept to the entrance slit to see what had happened. It was nothing. The men were all happily chatting to some Indian women about this and that. Further off though there seemed to be lots going on. They had been put in a tent almost on the outskirts of the capital, no doubt so that they would be close at hand but not in the way: if, as seemed likely, the news had got out, the center of the camp would be swarming with people. The two of them sat down again, and Clarke went on with the story he had barely begun:
“It appears that Cafulcurá — and don’t ask me how — has gone up in smoke.”