The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (motivational books to read TXT) 📗

“Fie, Quashy! I thought you were of a more trustful spirit.”

“So I is, massa—awrful trus’ful! Kin trus’ you wid a’most anyt’ing. Trus’ dis yer Injin gal wid untol’ gol’. Trus’ Sooz’n wid de whole world, an’ eberyt’ing else besides, but I’s not quite so sure about dis yer Pedro. Di’n’t he say dar’s noos to tell, an’ he wants help, an’ der’s mischif a-brewin’? An’ ain’t I sure ’nuff dat he’s got suffin to do wid de mischif, or he wouldn’t be so secret?”

“Well, Quashy, you’d better not tell Pedro your doubts of him,” said Lawrence; “for if he knocks you down, I won’t feel bound to stand up for you—seeing that I have perfect confidence in him.”

Further conversation on this point was cut abruptly short by a tremendous hissing inside the cottage, followed by clouds of steam. It was caused by one of Quashy’s pots having boiled over. The negro sprang to the rescue. Soon afterwards, the host and the old hunter returning, they all entered the place together, and sat down to supper.

It was but a simple cottage, suitable to the simple tastes of a mountaineer in such a region, with only two rooms and a kitchen, besides a small attic divided into two chambers, which could be reached only by a ladder through a trap-door. Little furniture graced it, yet what little there was bore evidence of having felt the touch of a tasteful female hand. Numerous nails and pegs were stuck in the walls for the purpose of supporting fire-arms, etcetera, but the weapons had been secreted in a place of safety, for, during the owner’s frequent and long absences from home, the cottage was locked up and left pretty much to take care of itself, being deemed safe enough, owing to its remote and lonely position.

The key was always left in charge of old Ignacio who was understood to have his eye on the place, and privileged to inhabit it whenever he chose.

All this, and a great deal more, Pedro told to Lawrence as they sat round the table at supper in what used to be the parlour of the establishment. “But I’m going to lock it up, and hide the key this time,” he continued; “because I have to send Ignacio on urgent matters into the eastern parts of Bolivia, to—”

“To git help, an’ tell de noos about de mischif what’s a-brewin’,” said the negro abruptly, with a pointed stare at the guide, and an arrested potato on the end of his fork.

“You’ve learnt your lesson well, Quashy,” returned Pedro, with a good-humoured smile, as he helped himself to a fresh supply of meat; “these are the very words—to obtain help and spread the news about the mischief that’s brewing. Pass the salt, like a good fellow, and help Manuela to some more maize. You’re forgetting your manners, boy.”

The negro heaved a sigh of discomfiture, and did as he was bid.

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.