raw bridle, when the reins are suddenly jerked from his
grasp--by his horse, which has gone headlong to the ground! At the same
instant he hears a sound, like the cracking of a dead stick snapped
crosswise. It is not that, but the shank of his horse, broken above the
pastern joint! It is the last sound he hears then, or for some time
after; he himself sustaining damage, though of a different kind--the
dislocation of a shoulder-blade--that of the arm already injured--with a
shock which deprives him of his senses.

Long lies he upon that moonlit plain, neither hearing the cries of the
night birds nor seeing the great ratlike quadrupeds that, in their
curiosity, come crowding close to, and go running around him!

And though consciousness at length returns, he remains in that same
place till morning's light--and for the whole of another day and night--
leaving the spot, and upon it his broken-legged horse, himself to limp
slowly away, leaning upon his guilty spear, as one wounded on a
battle-field, but one who has been fighting for a bad cause.

He reaches Assuncion--though not till the third day after--and there
gets his broken bones set. But for Gaspar Mendez, there may have been
luck in that shoulder-blade being put out of joint.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE BAROMETER-TREE.

After passing the _biscachera_, the trackers have not proceeded far,
when Caspar again reins up with eyes lowered to the ground. The others
seeing this, also bring their horses to a stand; then watch the gaucho,
who is apparently engaged with a fresh inspection of the trail.

"Have you found anything else?" asks Cypriano.

"No, _senorito_. Instead, I've lost something."

"What?" inquire both, in a breath.

"I don't any longer see the tracks of that shod horse. I mean the big
one we know nothing about. The pony's are here, but as for the other,
they're missing."

All three now join in a search for them, riding slowly along the trail,
and in different directions backward and forward. But after some
minutes thus passed, their search proves fruitless; no shod hoof-print,
save that of the pony, to be seen.

"This accounts for it," mutters Caspar, giving up the quest, and
speaking as to himself.

"Accounts for what?" demands Cypriano, who has overheard him.

"The return tracks we saw on the other side of the camp ground. I mean
the freshest of them, that went over the ford of the stream. Whoever
rode that horse, whether red or