The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America

Next morning at daybreak they left the cottage, and descended the intricate valley which led to it. Pedro seemed to have quite subdued his feelings—at least all outward manifestation of them—for he was sterner and more silent than usual as they resumed their journey. For some distance their route and that of Ignacio lay in the same direction, but towards the afternoon of the same day on which they left Mariquita Cottage the old hunter bade the party adieu, and, accompanied by his Gaucho lad and his dogs, entered a north-easterly defile of the hills, and disappeared.

“We shall soon get to more cultivated lands, Manuela,” said Pedro, in the Indian tongue, glancing back at Lawrence, who rode a few paces behind. “I doubt not you will be glad to see female faces again.”

To the surprise of the guide, Manuela said that she did not care!

“Indeed!” he rejoined; “I thought you would be getting tired by this time of such rough travelling, and frequent hard lodging and fare, as well as of the conversation of us men.”

“No, I am not tired. I delight in this wild, free life.”

“Surely not because it is new to you,” said Pedro, with a glance of amusement; “when you dwell with your kindred, your life must be wild enough—unless indeed the great chief, your father, deems it beneath the dignity of his daughter to join in the sports of her fellows.”

Manuela made no reply, but for a moment or two gave vent to that clear, short, merry laugh in which she sometimes indulged. Lawrence Armstrong, irresistibly charmed by the sound, rode up alongside.

“Manuela is merry,” he said to the guide; “will you not translate, that I may enjoy the joke?”

“It is not easy to translate,” replied Pedro. “In fact, I doubt if you will see the joke at all. It requires a little knowledge of Manuela’s past career to make understanding possible. She only said that she delighted in this wild, free life.”

“Not much jest in that, truly,” returned Lawrence, “being, I fear, dull of comprehension; nevertheless, I see an unintentional compliment to us in the remark, for it implies that we have not made Manuela’s journey tedious to her.”

“It may be so,” said Pedro, simply. “I was just telling her that we shall soon get to more inhabited parts of the land, where she will have a little female society now and then, and I was about to add that afterwards we shall descend into the lower grounds of Bolivia, where she will have wild life enough to her heart’s content—perchance too much of it.”

Soon afterwards the guide’s prophecy came true, for they passed from the rugged mountains into a wide and richly clothed table-land, where there were a few scattered farms, at which they were made heartily welcome whenever they chose to stop for the night or for a meal.

Passing thence into another range of comparatively low hills, they reached the town of San Ambrosio, where they found comfortable quarters in a new and commodious inn—at least it seemed commodious, after the recent experiences of our travellers.

Here Pedro said he would have to spend a day or two, as he had business to transact in the town, and that he would search out an old acquaintance with whose family he would place Manuela till their departure.

While Pedro was gone in quest of his friend, the Indian girl, probably feeling shy in the midst of such unwonted crowds, retired to the room provided for her, and Lawrence and Quashy found themselves left in the unusual condition of having nothing to do. Of course, in these circumstances, they resolved to go out and see the town.

While Lawrence was questioning the landlord, an American, as to how he should proceed, a very decided tremor passed through his frame. Quashy seemed to experience a similar sensation, for he said abruptly—

“Eart’quak’!”

“That’s nothing new here, sir,” said the landlord to Lawrence, as he lighted a cigarette; “we’re used to it, though some of the natives ain’t quite easy in their minds, for the shocks have been both frequent as well as violent lately.”

“Have they done any damage?” asked Lawrence.

“Nothin’ to speak of. Only shook down a house or two that was built to sell, I suppose, not to stand. You’ll find the market-place second turn to your left.”

Somewhat impressed by the landlord’s free-and-easy manner, as well as by his apparent contempt for earthquakes, the master and man went out together. With characteristic modesty the negro attempted to walk behind, but Lawrence would by no means permit this. He insisted on his walking beside him.

“Bery good, massa,” said Quashy, at last giving in, “if you will walk ’longside ob a nigger, ’s’not my fault. Don’t blame me.”

With this protest, solemnly uttered, the faithful negro accompanied our hero in his inspection of the town.

Chapter Nine.

Tells of a Tremendous Catastrophe

San Ambrosio was, at the period of which we write, a small and thriving place—though what may be styled a mushroom town, which owed its prosperity to recently discovered silver-mines. All things considered, it was a town of unusual magnificence on a small scale.

Being built with straight streets, cutting each other at right angles, Lawrence and his man had no difficulty in finding the principal square, or market-place, which was crowded with people selling and buying vegetables, milk, eggs, fruit, etcetera, brought in from the surrounding districts. The people presented all the picturesque characteristics of the land in profusion—peons, with huge Spanish spurs, mounted on gaily caparisoned mules; Gauchos, on active horses of the Pampas; market-women, in varied costumes more or less becoming, and dark-eyed senhoras on balconies and verandas sporting the graceful mantilla and the indispensable fan.

The carts and donkeys, and dogs and fowls, and boys had the curious effect of reducing the babel of voices and discordant sounds to something like a grand harmony.

Besides these, there was a sprinkling of men of free-and-easy swagger, in long boots, with more or less of villainy in their faces—adventurers these, attracted by the hope of “something turning up” to their advantage, though afflicted, most of them, with an intense objection to take the trouble of turning up anything for themselves. Dangerous fellows, too, who would not scruple to appropriate the turnings up of other people when safe opportunity offered.

A clear fountain played in the centre of the square—its cool, refreshing splash sounding very sweet in the ears of Lawrence, whose recent sojourn in the cold regions of the higher Andes had rendered him sensitive to the oppressive heat of the town. Besides this, a clear rivulet ran along one side of the square, near to which was the governor’s house. A line of trees threw a grateful shade over the footpath here. On the opposite side stood the barracks, where a few ill-clad unsoldierly men lounged about with muskets in their hands. All the houses and church walls and spires, not only in the square, but in the town, bore evidence, in the form of cracked walls and twisted windows and doorways, of the prevalence of earthquakes; and there was a general appearance of dilapidation and dirt around, which was anything but agreeable to men who had just come from the free, grand, sweet-scented scenery of the mountains.

“They seem to have had some severe shakings here,” said Lawrence, pointing with his stick to a crack in the side of one of the houses which extended from the roof to the ground.

We may remark here that, on entering the town, our travellers had laid aside their arms as being useless encumbrances, though Lawrence still carried his oaken cudgel, not as a weapon but a walking-stick.

“Yes, massa,” replied Quashy, “got lots ob eart’ quaks in dem diggins. Ebery day, more or less, dey hab a few. Jest afore you come down dis mornin’ I hab some conv’sashin’ wid de landlord, an’ he say he don’ like de look ob t’ings.”

“Indeed, Quashy. Why not?”

“’Cause it’s gittin’ too hot, he say, for de time ob year—sulfry, he called it.”

“Sultry, you mean?”

“Well, I’s not ’zactly sure what I means, but he said sulfry. An’ dey’ve bin shook more dan ornar ob late. An’ dere’s a scienskrific gen’leman in our inn what’s bin a-profisyin’ as there’ll be a grand bust-up afore long.”

“I hope he’ll turn out to be a false prophet,” said Lawrence. “What is his name?”

“Dun’ know, massa. Look dar!” exclaimed Quashy, with a grin, pointing to a fat priest with a broad-brimmed white hat on a sleek mule, “he do look comf’rable.”

“More comfortable than the poor beast behind him,” returned Lawrence, with a laugh, as he observed three little children cantering along on one horse.

There was no lack of entertainment and variety in that town, for people generally seemed to a great extent to have cast off the trammels of social etiquette, both in habits and costume. Many of the horses that passed were made to carry double. Here would ride past a man with a woman behind him; there a couple of girls, or two elderly females. Elsewhere appeared a priest of tremendous length and thinness, with feet much too near the ground, and further on a boy, so small as to resemble a monkey, with behind him a woman so old as to suggest the idea he had taken his great-grandmother out for a ride, or—vice versa!

For some hours master and man wandered about enjoying themselves thoroughly in spite of the heat, commenting freely on all they saw and heard, until hunger reminded them of the flight of time. Returning to their hotel, Lawrence, to his surprise, found a note awaiting him. It was from Pedro, saying that he had found his friend in a village about three miles from San Ambrosio, describing the route to the place, and asking him to send Quashy out immediately, as he wanted his assistance that night for a few hours.

“I wonder what he wants with you?” said Lawrence.

“To help him wid de mischif!” replied the negro, in a half-sulky tone.

“Well, you’ll have to go, but you’d better eat something first.”

“No, massa; wid you’s leave I’ll go off at once. A hunk ob bread in de pocket an’ lots o’ fruit by de way—das ’nuff for dis nigger.”

“Off with you, then, and tell Pedro that you left Manuela and me quite comfortable.”

“O Massa Lawrie!—’scuse me usin’ de ole name—it am so nice to hear you speak jolly like dat. ’Minds me ob de ole times!”

“Get along with you,” said Lawrence, with a laugh, as the warm-hearted black left the hotel.

Thus these two parted. Little did they imagine what singular experiences they should encounter before meeting again.