Tierra del Fuego by Francisco Coloane Read Free Book Online Page A

bookkeeper. I say “his good days,” because, just as water from the Patagonian lakes sparkles less the closer it gets to the sea, Handler’s mind also seemed to be undergoing a decline—thanks to his fondness for whiskey, according to some, or to the fact that he was always reading, his head buried in books for days and weeks on end. What couldn’t be denied was that, having been an excellent bookkeeper on some of the Company’s biggest ranches, he had ended up on the smallest, Las Charitas, which only had some fifty thousand sheep, and had gotten its name because of the abundance of ostriches in its pastures.
    As I forded a stream, I noticed fresh horse tracks, going in both directions. I was sure now that the bookkeeper had indeed been heading for Puerto Consuelo, on the southern shore of Ultima Esperanza Sound, where he sometimes had to deal with matters relating to shipments of hides and wool. Once I had checked the tracks, I spurred my horse and galloped off determinedly in that direction, the second horse following on.
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    The long November afternoon was drawing to a close when the sparse oak woods that characterize the coastal region of Ultima Esperanza told me I was getting close to Puerto Consuelo.
    Gradually, the branches of the trees on either side of the track were becoming shrouded in shadow, and the leaves seemed filled with a kind of animation, as if the sap coursing through them were making them quiver. I was a little alarmed, not so much because of this movement in the dark as because I still had not found any real trace of Handler.
    I soon came to the mountain, nearly two thousand feet high, on whose slope the Milodón Cave is situated. This famous cave is about two hundred fifty feet across at its opening, a hundred feet high and six hundred fifty deep. There are other, smaller caves on the same southern slope and, some eighteen miles to the east, another one almost half the size of the Milodón.
    There was something quite strange about the area, possibly because fire had swept through the surrounding oak woods at some point, leaving only twisted black skeletons, at the feet of which the young trees were already emerging, dramatically embracing the specters of their forebears. Right opposite the wide mouth of the Milodón Cave was a wooded fringe, spared by the fire, which gave the place the mysterious appearance of a prehistoric garden.
    I stopped to inspect the surroundings and, not finding anything at first sight, decided to search the smaller caves, starting with the one farther to the east. It was a short gallop away. I dismounted and went in, calling Handler’s name. I lit a few matches, but the shadows were so thick that the flame dazzled my eyes but showed me nothing beyond itself. I went in as far as I could, but didn’t find anything. Nor did I have any luck in the other, smaller caves.
    So I went back to the Milodón Cave, ready to explore it more systematically. Seen from a distance, the oval entrance, with its projecting boulders, looked like the large mouth of a big black toad merging into the darkness of the night.
    I tied the horses to an oak, went in, and called out Handler’s name. Your own voice often gives you a sense of security when you’re in the dark, but in this case I’d have done better not to call out, because a distant, piercing cry answered me from deep inside the cave. My nerves went taut. I remembered the phenomenon some shepherds had told me about, which they’d experienced one day when the weather was bad and they’d taken shelter there. A person seen from a distance inside the cave seemed to be hundreds of yards away, when in fact they were only about thirty feet away. A similar distortion might be happening now, with the voice echoing in the age-old acoustics. The stalactites hanging from the roof probably had something to do with this strange effect.
    I overcame my fear and called out again, and the cry