Clarke returned to the grassy beach as quickly as he could, with the shaman behind him. He put his trousers on, rubbed his feet briskly to get rid of the gravel and bits of grass, and wriggled into his boots.
“I’m all ears,” he said, facing the Indian.
“Come with me, please. Let’s find somewhere quieter.”
It was difficult to imagine anywhere quieter than the spot they were already in, but Clarke mounted up anyway and followed the shaman, who headed off at a walk in a direction perpendicular to the stream. They were soon in open ground. To Clarke’s surprise, a hill appeared in the distance. It was a gentle one, but well-defined, perhaps in contrast to the flat plain all around. They rode up it. When they reached the top Mallén, who so far had not opened his mouth again, dismounted and invited Clarke to do the same. It seemed strange that by climbing such a little way, they could see so far, but that was a natural property of the prairie: each yard climbed represented a hundred leagues. They sat down in the grass, their faces turned toward the sun. As the Indian still said nothing, Clarke decided to take the initiative with something neutraclass="underline"
“It’s a fine evening.”
“Would you believe I’m so worried I hadn’t even noticed?”
“You must have your reasons.”
“I’ll say I do.” A fresh, prolonged silence. But the Indian had got started, so Clarke contented himself with waiting. Sure enough, with the lines on his face deepening and his eyes turning even blacker, Mallén began to explain. “What I most feared has happened.”
His words had a special resonance for the Englishman.
It was the kind of expression which, when examined logically, did not make sense. Yet it was the second time in the space of half an hour that he had heard it, in one way or another.
“As you well know,” the Indian went on, “in spite of all the precautions taken, Cafulcurá has disappeared.”
“But hasn’t he appeared again?”
“Don’t tell me you believed that official denial! If you did, you were the only one to do so.”
Yet again, this scorn for his naivety. Obviously then, it wasn’t just Gauna. Clarke decided not to let it upset him.
“The fact is, I didn’t stop to think about it. I accepted what I was told, as a matter of course.”
Emerging from his pessimistic daydream, Mallén stared at him as if he were seeing him for the first time that evening:
“Of course. I’d forgotten they suspected you at first. How absurd.” He waved his hand, as if dismissing a triviality. “Well, yes, our chieftain has been kidnapped. And everything appears to indicate there is little chance of getting him back alive. All we can hope is that for some reason or other they postpone his execution. There’s also the fact that his son Reymacurá, who went off in pursuit of his kidnappers, has not returned. As you can see, we only have a slender thread to hang on to.”
“Couldn’t he have disappeared of his own accord?”
“Don’t talk rubbish.”
“So who could it have been?”
“Everything suggests it was our most bitter enemies, the
Voroga.”
“Why shouldn’t they kill him immediately?”
“Mister Clarke, I have decided to confide in you. You’ll soon see why. To my mind, there’s a black-hearted, ferocious woman behind all this. Have you ever heard of Rondeau’s widow?”
“No.”
“A few years ago, Cafulcurá defeated a Voroga chief by the name of Rondeau, and quite logically, put him to death. Among the reparations that were then paid to the defeated tribe (because we have the generous custom that it is the victor who pays) was an offer of marriage to the chieftain’s widow. That woman, who is not even a Voroga by birth but a complete stranger, had the audacity to reject the proposal, and fled with a group of her followers. Over the years, a lot more have joined them, so that today she has a fearsome power.”
“What does she have against Cafulcurá?”
“Nothing, and that’s what is most disturbing. It’s not because he killed her husband, because she herself tried to do that on more than one occasion — she hated him. In fact, she doesn’t seem to have anything against Cafulcurá or anyone else in particular; she’s happy just to be bloodthirsty and to survive.”
“Why do you suspect her?”
“Because she is the only person daring enough to carry out a raid like this, and the only one with so little to lose (she doesn’t even possess any territory) that she doesn’t fear any reprisals. Even so, she must have realized she was going too far, and that is why I suspect she has reached an understanding with the current leader of the Vorogas, that hypocrite Coliqueo, who is the one who stands to gain most from Cafulcurá’s death. My whole line of thinking is based on that hypothesis: if Cafulcurá was taken alive, it must have been her, with the intention of keeping him and threatening her associate with returning him to us if he does not fulfill his promises, whatever they might have been. In that way, she secures her position.”
“I see.”
“I wanted to ask a great favor of you, Mister Clarke.”
“At your service.”
“Will you go to Coliqueo’s camp and try to discover his intentions? I don’t know if that makes sense.”
“But I’ve no idea how to do that!”
“Oh come now, don’t be so modest. If anyone knows, it’s you.”
“How would I get there, with all the tension there is in the air?”
“But you are precisely the one who would have the least problem doing so. How did you get this far?”
“Well. .” said Clarke, who in reality had never seriously asked himself that question, “I suppose it was due to the skill of my tracker, and good will on your part. . ”
The shaman looked at him again, this time in genuine astonishment: “You mean you don’t know about the horse?”
“Repetido? What has he got to do with it? Rosas lent him to me, that’s all I know.”
“And where did Rosas get him? Haven’t you seen Cafulcurá’s horse?”
“Yes, it’s similar. . ”
“No; it’s identical.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. . ”
“Yes, it is! But this is incredible! You mean to say you came here blindly, trusting to your good fortune?”
“Mister Mallén, do me the favor of enlightening me.”
Choosing to ignore the Englishman’s irritated tone, the shaman collected his thoughts.
“In our humble way, we like to breed our horses to produce the piebald effect we admire. Why do we like it so much? Because we can read the language of the different patches of color, and this is very practical for us. Repetido is a horse which exactly reproduces the same patches as Cafulcurá’s favorite, or what might be called his ‘official’ mount, and it is for that and no other reason that you succeeded in reaching Salinas Grandes unscathed. The two horses are twins, foals born at the same time from the same mare, and that mare was the granddaughter of the famous Fantasma, the horse in whose kidneys was found the blue stone which is Cafulcurá’s talisman. Apart from the stone, the legend, and the resulting play on words, Fantasma was the source of a line of twin horses. Your Repetido was a gift from our chieftain to Rosas on the occasion of an eternal peace treaty they signed a few years ago.”
“I had no idea.”
“I’m not surprised. There’s so much we do not know. . Well, not to waste time, will you help?”
Clarke only needed a moment’s thought: “Agreed.”
Their conversation was at an end. From their slight elevation, they could see the encroaching night gradually veiling the splendor of the evening sky. Flocks of pigeons rose into the heavens. Everything seemed to invite them to stay a while longer. Then a question occurred to Clarke: