The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (ebook pc reader .TXT) 📕

South America,—when they do, they soon become un-sensitive. When parrots assemble in a flock on the trees, they keep fluttering their wings with a tremulous motion, bending down their heads and chattering, young and old, without regard to each other or to harmony. Each seems bent on giving his own opinion in the loudest key, and pays no regard whatever to the opinions of others. There is something almost human in this!

It is a curious fact that, while the plumage of the parrots’ breasts is always gaudy and brilliant in the extreme, that of their backs is usually the colour of the general tone of the region they inhabit. In woods, where the bark of trees is chiefly bright yellow and green, their backs are of these colours. In the plains they are a mixture of green and brown, so that when skimming over a country they are not easily distinguished, but if they chance to come unexpectedly on travellers, they sheer off with a shriek, and expose their gaudy breasts to view.

The large flock that had so suddenly come on our friends while taking their siesta had turned off thus with a horrible scream, and revealed their gay breasts, on which the sun chanced to shine at the moment with great power, thus producing, as we have said, a splendid flash of colour.

“Massa,” inquired Quashy, as they sat in the canoe enjoying the cold meal and floating slowly with the stream, “which you likes best,—ros’ purrit or ros’ monkey?”

“Really, I’m not quite sure,” replied Lawrence; “it depends very much on appetite. If I’m very hungry, I prefer the one that comes first to hand. Which do you like best?”

“Well, I’s not kite sure needer. I t’ink sometimes dat monkey is best, but I can’t easy git ober de face.”

“How so, Quashy?”

“’Cause it am so like eatin’ a bit o’ my great-gran’moder.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. You’s no notion how like dey all is to dat ole lady. You see, she was uncommon old. She come ob a long-lib race. Das whar’ it is. My moder was eighty-two, an’ my gran’moder was ninety-siven, an’ my great-gran’moder was a hun’r’d an’ sixteen, an’ dey was all alive togidder, an’ at fuss you couldn’ tell which was de oldest. Dey run neck an’ neck for a long time, but arter de great-gran’ one pass de hunr’ milestone—oh! she hoed ahead like a rattlesnake. De wrinkles an’ de crows’ foots, an’ de—de colour—jes’ like bu’nt leather! She lef’ de oders far behind, an’ looked like nuffin so much as dat poor little blear-eyed monkey you shot de oder day, what Senhorina Manuela say was so nice to eat. What! you un’erstan’ Ingliss?” added the negro, looking at the Indian girl, who had given vent to a half-suppressed giggle.

“Yes—leetil,” replied Manuela, without attempting further to restrain her mirth.

Quite pleased that his remarks should afford amusement, Quashy was about to launch out extensively on the “great-gran’moder” theme, when an exclamation from the guide checked him.

“Look, Senhor Armstrong,” he said, arresting the progress of the canoe by a slight turn of his paddle. “Yonder is a mode of fishing which no doubt is new to you.”

Pedro pointed as he spoke to a canoe which a sharp bend of the stream had just revealed to them. Its occupants were Indians. They were almost naked, and so intent on their occupation that the arrival of our travellers had not been observed. One of the Indians, a splendid specimen of muscular strength, stood up in the canoe with a bow and arrow in his hands and one foot on the gunwale, quite motionless. Suddenly he drew the bow, the arrow pierced the water without causing a ripple, and next moment a transfixed fish was struggling on the surface.

The fish was barely secured when the presence of strangers was discovered. An exclamation followed. Instantly the dark savage bent his bow, with the arrow pointed this time full at the breast of Pedro.

That worthy did not, however, seem much alarmed. He at once pushed out into the stream, and gave a shout which induced the savage not only to lower his bow, but to fling it into his canoe and throw up his arms with exclamations of surprise and joy.

“He knows you?” said Lawrence, looking back at Pedro, who sat in the stern of their canoe.

“Yes, he knows me. I am pretty well-known to most people in these regions. This is the tiger-hunter of whom I have spoken. His dwelling is not far-off.”

The meeting of the two friends was remarkably cordial, and it was evident to both Lawrence and Quashy that the white man and the brown were not only old friends, but more than usually fond of each other.

After the first salutations, both canoes were run to the bank of the stream, and when they had all landed, Pedro presented his friend to Lawrence, who shook hands with him in the English fashion.

“You have not mentioned your friend’s name,” said Lawrence.

“His name!” replied Pedro, with a laugh, “well, it is almost unpronounceable. Perhaps you had better call him by the name he goes by among his friends—Spotted Tiger, or, more briefly—Tiger.”

“Tell Spotted Tiger, then,” said Lawrence, “that I am happy to make his acquaintance.”

When the guide had translated this, and the Indian had returned a complimentary rejoinder, they continued to converse in the Indian tongue with much animation, and, on the part of Spotted Tiger, with some excitement. Of course Lawrence understood nothing, but he continued to watch the expressive features of the savage with interest, and observed, when their glances showed they were talking of Manuela, that Tiger first raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then smiled peculiarly.

“Strange,” thought Lawrence, “what can he mean by that? Perhaps he knows the chief, her father, but why look surprised and smile on that account? I wish Pedro was not so secretive. However, it’s his business, not mine!”

Consoling himself with this philosophic thought, Lawrence re-embarked with his friends, and, accompanied by Tiger, proceeded down stream till they came to a beautiful spot where the banks widened out into a small lake or pond. On its shores, under the cool shade of many trees, stood the hut of the savage.

The scenery here was more than usually beautiful, being diversified not only in form, but in its wealth and variety of trees, and twining parasites and graceful ferns, with, in one place, groves of tall trees covered with balls of wild cotton, as large as an orange, and, elsewhere, inextricable entanglements of gorgeously flowering creepers, such as the most vivid imagination would fail to invent or conceive. Behind one part of the scene the setting sun shone with intense light, turning all into dark forms, while in other parts the slanting rays fell upon masses of rich foliage, and intensified its colour.

In front of the hut a handsome Indian woman stood awaiting the arrival of her husband. She held in her arms a naked little ball of whitey-brown fat, which represented the youngest Tiger-cub of the family. Other cubs, less whitey, and more brown, romped around, while up in the trees several remembrancers of Quashy’s great-great-grandmother sat grinning with delight, if not indignation, at the human beings below.

After being hospitably entertained by the Indian with fish, alligator soup, roast parrot, and young monkey, the party assembled round a fire, kindled outside the hut more for the purpose of scaring away wild beasts than cooking, though the little Tiger-cubs used it for the latter purpose.

Then Pedro said to Lawrence—

“Now, Senhor Armstrong, I am going to ask you to exercise a little patience at this point in our journey. The business I have in hand requires that I should leave you for two or three days. I fully expect to be back by the end of that time, and meanwhile I leave you and Quashy and Manuela in good company, for my friend Spotted Tiger is true as steel, though he is an Indian, and will perhaps show you a little sport to prevent your wearying.”

“Very good, Pedro. I am quite willing to wait,” said Lawrence. “You know I am not pressed for time at present. I shall be very glad to remain and see what is to be seen here, and learn Spanish from Manuela.”

“Or teach her Angleesh,” suggested the girl, bashfully.

“Certainly. Whichever pleases you best, Manuela,” returned Lawrence.

“But s’pose,” said Quashy, with a look of awful solemnity at Pedro—“s’pose you nebber comes back at all! S’pose you gits drownded, or killed by a tiger, or shot by a Injin. What den?”

“Suppose,” retorted the guide, “that an earthquake should swallow up South America, or that the world should catch fire—what then?”

“Why den, we no care a buttin for not’ing arter dat,” replied the negro, promptly, “but if you don’ return, we nebber reach Buenos Ayres.”

“Never fear, Quashy. If I don’t return, Spotted Tiger will guide you safely there.”

That night Pedro and his friend left the hut in a canoe, lighted by a brilliant moon. Before morning the latter returned alone.

Meanwhile Lawrence had slung Manuela’s hammock between two trees, with a fire on either side, yet screened from the chief camp-fire by a thick bush, so that though close at hand, and under his protection, she occupied, as it were, a separate chamber of her own. His own hammock and that of Quashy—for they all used hammocks—were hung side by side a little nearer to the large fire.

Mr and Mrs Tiger, with all the little Tigers, finding their hut rather warm, came outside, and also made their beds beside their visitors.