Deadly Shoals by Joan Druett Read Free Book Online Page A

it.”
    â€œWhat about Dr. Ducatel? Do you know him?”
    â€œAye.” Stackpole grinned contemptuously. “He’s a joke. Three or four Americans live here, trying to make their fortune up the Río Negro. Caleb Adams is one of them, and Ducatel another. But at least Adams behaves like a regular Yankee. Ducatel acts like a comedian.”
    â€œWhat kind of comedian?”
    â€œHe pretends to be a real live gaucho, wears their fancy gear, rattles away in some kind of Spanish. The governor encourages him because he finds it so comical.”
    Reminded of the governor, Wiki said, “We should pay our respects to His Excellency.”
    â€œDamn it, no. By the time we got through with all the ceremonious nonsense these trackers would’ve given up and gone home.”
    This was a good point, Wiki thought, but objected, “It’s late. We’ll probably be out overnight.”
    â€œWhat difference does that make?”
    Wiki shrugged, and headed into the store. Inside, he chose a brown-striped poncho, pleasantly surprised at the weight and quality of the wool, and paid over some coins to the clerk, who didn’t look at all excited about making a sale. Back at the door, he had another thought, and returned to the counter to sort through the red bandannas. When he rejoined the whaling master, he was wearing one of these tied about his head at forehead level, gaucho-style, taming most of his ringlets, while the folded poncho lay over his left shoulder.
    Stackpole studied the effect with open contempt, but said, “Out all night?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œThen perhaps I should get one of those ponchos.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Wiki.
    Instead of waiting for Stackpole to make the purchase, he mounted and cantered after the gauchos, who had already headed off down the street. The whaleman seemed to take a long time, because when he rejoined them they had arrived on the path that led upriver, and were waiting impatiently to go. Bernantio was in the lead, leaning down from his saddle at such a steep angle that he could have dragged his knuckles on the ground, but keeping his seat with miraculous agility. Once, he pointed at a mark in the sandy embankment, and even Wiki could see the print of a horse that had favored one foot.
    Soon, however, the baked mud of the track turned into stones and gravel, furrowed with old wagon wheel ruts that were encrusted with some kind of chalky mineral deposit. Bernantio stopped, and slid to the ground stealthily, as if the hoofprints Wiki could barely distinguish would take flight if disturbed. They all waited as he cast back and forth. Then, with an abrupt movement, he sprung back onto his horse, beckoning his companions from over his shoulder as he went.
    â€œThey went that way,” he said, and pointed up the trail.
    *   *   *
    As the troop rode inland, always heading west, the valley widened into a plain of gravel, pumice, and sunbaked mud. The pink and gray rampart of the sandstone cliffs, which had been so close to the river before, was now about three miles away. The scant growth that struggled to survive in the flatness the cliffs had left behind was studded with small thorn bushes, and trampled with ruts and dried wallows, which straggled off to the side of the trail. These old tracks had been made by parties who were traveling back and forth between scattered ranches and the river, Wiki supposed. Then, however, Bernantio pointed a finger at the distant cliffs, and said significantly, “Men who plot rebellion against de Rosas have their hideouts there.”
    Wiki, feeling interested, would have liked to rein in and have a better look, but the rastreadores kept on, and he was forced to gallop after them. As they progressed, the cliffs receded even further, so that the expanse of the plain became immense. Then the flatness of the vista was interrupted by strange pale pyramids that stood up out of the hammered