human
Ah! a ball the Indians have left behind--lost, you mean.
gpt
No, _senoritos_; I don't mean that, exactly. Of course, the redskins have left it behind, and so lost it. But that isn't the reason of my calling it a _bola perdida_.
human
Why, then, Caspar? asks Ludwig, with the hereditary instincts of the _savant_, like his father, curious about all such things.
gpt
Why do you call it a lost ball?
human
Because that's the name we gauchos give it, and the name by which it is known among those who make use of it--these Chaco Indians.
gpt
And pray, what do they use it for? I never heard of the thing. What is its purpose?
human
One for which, I hope, neither it nor any of its sort will ever be employed upon us. The Virgin forbid! For it is no child's toy, I can assure you, _senoritos_; but a most murderous weapon. I've witnessed its effects more than once--seen it flung full thirty yards, and hit a spot not bigger than the breadth of my hand; the head of a horse, crushing in the animal's skull as if done by a club of _quebracha_. Heaven protect me, and you too, _muchachos_, from ever getting struck by a _bola perdida_!
gpt
But why a _lost_ ball?
human
Oh! that's plain enough, answers the gaucho.
gpt
As you see, when once launched there's no knowing where it may roll to; and often gets lost in the long grass or among bushes; unlike the ordinary _bolas_, which stick to the thing aimed at--that is, if thrown as they should be.
human
What do you make of its being found here?
gpt
Much,
human
Indeed!
gpt
Yes, indeed, young masters, proceeds the gaucho.
human
The thing I now hold in my hand has once, and not very long ago, been in the hands of a Tovas Indian!
gpt
A Tovas! exclaims Cypriano, excitedly.
human
What reason have you for thinking so?
gpt
The best of all reasons. Because, so far as is known to me, no other Chaco Indians but they use the _bola perdida_. That ball has been handled, mislaid, and left here behind by a Tovas traitor. You are right, _senorito_, he adds, speaking to Cypriano.
human
Whoever may have murdered my poor master, your uncle, Aguara is he who has carried off your cousin.
gpt
Let us on! cries Cypriano, without another word.
human
O, Ludwig! he adds,