Monday's Illustrated Word: "Red Mask of the Rio Grande" by Gardner Fox (in English)

 art by Frank Bolle - Tim Holt vol.2 #20 - Magazine Enterprises, November 1950.

 

 

Good Reading; "Astarte" by E. Hoffmann Price (in English)

Your lips half part in a painted smile,
Hiding your thoughts, revealing but your guile;
Your dark-veiled, dusky, Saracenic eyes
Look down, and look but to despise
The fools who bend to kiss your dainty feet;
Your scornful, mocking lips are poison-sweet
As hasheesh mingled with Shirazi wine. . . .
And yet your lovers gather at your shrine,
Pale simulacrum wreathed in mystery:
Infatuated by your sorcery,
Lured by flame and shadow alternate,
They worship you who neither love nor hate.

Friday's Sung Word: "Vai Para a Casa Depressa" or "Cara ou Coroa" by Noel Rosa and Francisco Mattoso (in Portuguese)

Vai para casa depressa
Vai prevenir teu senhor
Que vou cumprir a promessa
Que fiz, de possuir teu amor.
Não quero ser um covarde
Volta depressa pra teu barracão
Antes que seja bem tarde
Para salvar a tua reputação

Quando a mulher desequilibra
Dois malandros que têm fibra
Só há uma solução:
Para que brigar a toa?
Basta tirar cara ou coroa,
Com um níquel de tostão.

Se não bastar tirar a sorte
E o amor falar mais forte
Sou o dono da questão;
E ao teu antigo dono
Tu vais dar teu abandono
Dando a mim teu coração.

 

You can listen "Vai Para a Casa Depressa" or "Cara ou Coroa" sung by Marília Baptista here.

Thursday's Serial: “The Light of Western Stars” by Zane Grey (in English) - X

XIII. Cowboy Golf

In the whirl of the succeeding days it was a mooted question whether Madeline's guests or her cowboys or herself got the keenest enjoyment out of the flying time. Considering the sameness of the cowboys' ordinary life, she was inclined to think they made the most of the present. Stillwell and Stewart, however, had found the situation trying. The work of the ranch had to go on, and some of it got sadly neglected. Stillwell could not resist the ladies any more than he could resist the fun in the extraordinary goings-on of the cowboys. Stewart alone kept the business of cattle-raising from a serious setback. Early and late he was in the saddle, driving the lazy Mexicans whom he had hired to relieve the cowboys.

One morning in June Madeline was sitting on the porch with her merry friends when Stillwell appeared on the corral path. He had not come to consult Madeline for several days—an omission so unusual as to be remarked.

“Here comes Bill—in trouble,” laughed Florence.

Indeed, he bore some faint resemblance to a thundercloud as he approached the porch; but the greetings he got from Madeline's party, especially from Helen and Dorothy, chased away the blackness from his face and brought the wonderful wrinkling smile.

“Miss Majesty, sure I'm a sad demoralized old cattleman,” he said, presently. “An' I'm in need of a heap of help.”

“What's wrong now?” asked Madeline, with her encouraging smile.

“Wal, it's so amazin' strange what cowboys will do. I jest am about to give up. Why, you might say my cowboys were all on strike for vacations. What do you think of that? We've changed the shifts, shortened hours, let one an' another off duty, hired Greasers, an', in fact, done everythin' that could be thought of. But this vacation idee growed worse. When Stewart set his foot down, then the boys begin to get sick. Never in my born days as a cattleman have I heerd of so many diseases. An' you ought to see how lame an' crippled an' weak many of the boys have got all of a sudden. The idee of a cowboy comin' to me with a sore finger an' askin' to be let off for a day! There's Booly. Now I've knowed a hoss to fall all over him, an' onct he rolled down a canyon. Never bothered him at all. He's got a blister on his heel, a ridin' blister, an' he says it's goin' to blood-poisonin' if he doesn't rest. There's Jim Bell. He's developed what he says is spinal mengalootis, or some such like. There's Frankie Slade. He swore he had scarlet fever because his face burnt so red, I guess, an' when I hollered that scarlet fever was contagious an' he must be put away somewhere, he up an' says he guessed it wasn't that. But he was sure awful sick an' needed to loaf around an' be amused. Why, even Nels doesn't want to work these days. If it wasn't for Stewart, who's had Greasers with the cattle, I don't know what I'd do.”

“Why all this sudden illness and idleness?” asked Madeline.

“Wal, you see, the truth is every blamed cowboy on the range except Stewart thinks it's his bounden duty to entertain the ladies.”

“I think that is just fine!” exclaimed Dorothy Coombs; and she joined in the general laugh.

“Stewart, then, doesn't care to help entertain us?” inquired Helen, in curious interest. “Wal, Miss Helen, Stewart is sure different from the other cowboys,” replied Stillwell. “Yet he used to be like them. There never was a cowboy fuller of the devil than Gene. But he's changed. He's foreman here, an' that must be it. All the responsibility rests on him. He sure has no time for amusin' the ladies.”

“I imagine that is our loss,” said Edith Wayne, in her earnest way. “I admire him.”

“Stillwell, you need not be so distressed with what is only gallantry in the boys, even if it does make a temporary confusion in the work,” said Madeline.

“Miss Majesty, all I said is not the half, nor the quarter, nor nuthin' of what's troublin' me,” answered he, sadly.

“Very well; unburden yourself.”

“Wal, the cowboys, exceptin' Gene, have gone plumb batty, jest plain crazy over this heah game of gol-lof.”

A merry peal of mirth greeted Stillwell's solemn assertion.

“Oh, Stillwell, you are in fun,” replied Madeline.

“I hope to die if I'm not in daid earnest,” declared the cattleman. “It's an amazin' strange fact. Ask Flo. She'll tell you. She knows cowboys, an' how if they ever start on somethin' they ride it as they ride a hoss.”

Florence being appealed to, and evidently feeling all eyes upon her, modestly replied that Stillwell had scarcely misstated the situation.

“Cowboys play like they work or fight,” she added. “They give their whole souls to it. They are great big simple boys.”

“Indeed they are,” said Madeline. “Oh, I'm glad if they like the game of golf. They have so little play.”

“Wal, somethin's got to be did if we're to go on raisin' cattle at Her Majesty's Rancho,” replied Stillwell. He appeared both deliberate and resigned.

Madeline remembered that despite Stillwell's simplicity he was as deep as any of his cowboys, and there was absolutely no gaging him where possibilities of fun were concerned. Madeline fancied that his exaggerated talk about the cowboys' sudden craze for golf was in line with certain other remarkable tales that had lately emanated from him. Some very strange things had occurred of late, and it was impossible to tell whether or not they were accidents, mere coincidents, or deep-laid, skilfully worked-out designs of the fun-loving cowboys. Certainly there had been great fun, and at the expense of her guests, particularly Castleton. So Madeline was at a loss to know what to think about Stillwell's latest elaboration. From mere force of habit she sympathized with him and found difficulty in doubting his apparent sincerity.

“To go back a ways,” went on Stillwell, as Madeline looked up expectantly, “you recollect what pride the boys took in fixin' up that gol-lof course out on the mesa? Wal, they worked on that job, an' though I never seen any other course, I'll gamble yours can't be beat. The boys was sure curious about that game. You recollect also how they all wanted to see you an' your brother play, an' be caddies for you? Wal, whenever you'd quit they'd go to work tryin' to play the game. Monty Price, he was the leadin' spirit. Old as I am, Miss Majesty, an' used as I am to cowboy excentrikities, I nearly dropped daid when I heered that little hobble-footed, burned-up Montana cow-puncher say there wasn't any game too swell for him, an' gol-lof was just his speed. Serious as a preacher, mind you, he was. An' he was always practisin'. When Stewart gave him charge of the course an' the club-house an' all them funny sticks, why, Monty was tickled to death. You see, Monty is sensitive that he ain't much good any more for cowboy work. He was glad to have a job that he didn't feel he was hangin' to by kindness. Wal, he practised the game, an' he read the books in the club-house, an' he got the boys to doin' the same. That wasn't very hard, I reckon. They played early an' late an' in the moonlight. For a while Monty was coach, an' the boys stood it. But pretty soon Frankie Slade got puffed on his game, an' he had to have it out with Monty. Wal, Monty beat him bad. Then one after another the other boys tackled Monty. He beat them all. After that they split up an' begin to play matches, two on a side. For a spell this worked fine. But cowboys can't never be satisfied long onless they win all the time. Monty an' Link Stevens, both cripples, you might say, joined forces an' elected to beat all comers. Wal, they did, an' that's the trouble. Long an' patient the other cowboys tried to beat them two game legs, an' hevn't done it. Mebbe if Monty an' Link was perfectly sound in their legs like the other cowboys there wouldn't hev been such a holler. But no sound cowboys'll ever stand for a disgrace like that. Why, down at the bunks in the evenin's it's some mortifyin' the way Monty an' Link crow over the rest of the outfit. They've taken on superior airs. You couldn't reach up to Monty with a trimmed spruce pole. An' Link—wal, he's just amazin' scornful.

“'It's a swell game, ain't it?' says Link, powerful sarcastic. 'Wal, what's hurtin' you low-down common cowmen? You keep harpin' on Monty's game leg an' on my game leg. If we hed good legs we'd beat you all the wuss. It's brains that wins in gol-lof. Brains an' airstoocratik blood, which of the same you fellers sure hev little.'

“An' then Monty he blows smoke powerful careless an' superior, an' he says:

“'Sure it's a swell game. You cow-headed gents think beef an' brawn ought to hev the call over skill an' gray matter. You'll all hev to back up an' get down. Go out an' learn the game. You don't know a baffy from a Chinee sandwich. All you can do is waggle with a club an' fozzle the ball.'

“Whenever Monty gets to usin' them queer names the boys go round kind of dotty. Monty an' Link hev got the books an' directions of the game, an' they won't let the other boys see them. They show the rules, but that's all. An', of course, every game ends in a row almost before it's started. The boys are all turrible in earnest about this gol-lof. An' I want to say, for the good of ranchin', not to mention a possible fight, that Monty an' Link hev got to be beat. There'll be no peace round this ranch till that's done.”

Madeline's guests were much amused. As for herself, in spite of her scarcely considered doubt, Stillwell's tale of woe occasioned her anxiety. However, she could hardly control her mirth.

“What in the world can I do?”

“Wal, I reckon I couldn't say. I only come to you for advice. It seems that a queer kind of game has locoed my cowboys, an' for the time bein' ranchin' is at a standstill. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but cowboys are as strange as wild cattle. All I'm sure of is that the conceit has got to be taken out of Monty an' Link. Onct, just onct, will square it, an' then we can resoome our work.”

“Stillwell, listen,” said Madeline, brightly. “We'll arrange a match game, a foursome, between Monty and Link and your best picked team. Castleton, who is an expert golfer, will umpire. My sister, and friends, and I will take turns as caddies for your team. That will be fair, considering yours is the weaker. Caddies may coach, and perhaps expert advice is all that is necessary for your team to defeat Monty's.”

“A grand idee,” declared Stillwell, with instant decision. “When can we have this match game?”

“Why, to-day—this afternoon. We'll all ride out to the links.”

“Wal, I reckon I'll be some indebted to you, Miss Majesty, an' all your guests,” replied Stillwell, warmly. He rose with sombrero in hand, and a twinkle in his eye that again prompted Madeline to wonder. “An' now I'll be goin' to fix up for the game of cowboy gol-lof. Adios.”

The idea was as enthusiastically received by Madeline's guests as it had been by Stillwell. They were highly amused and speculative to the point of taking sides and making wagers on their choice. Moreover, this situation so frankly revealed by Stillwell had completed their deep mystification. They were now absolutely nonplussed by the singular character of American cowboys. Madeline was pleased to note how seriously they had taken the old cattleman's story. She had a little throb of wild expectancy that made her both fear and delight in the afternoon's prospect.

The June days had set in warm; in fact, hot during the noon hours: and this had inculcated in her insatiable visitors a tendency to profit by the experience of those used to the Southwest. They indulged in the restful siesta during the heated term of the day.

Madeline was awakened by Majesty's well-known whistle and pounding on the gravel. Then she heard the other horses. When she went out she found her party assembled in gala golf attire, and with spirits to match their costumes. Castleton, especially, appeared resplendent in a golf coat that beggared description. Madeline had faint misgivings when she reflected on what Monty and Nels and Nick might do under the influence of that blazing garment.

“Oh. Majesty,” cried Helen, as Madeline went up to her horse, “don't make him kneel! Try that flying mount. We all want to see it. It's so stunning.”

“But that way, too, I must have him kneel,” said Madeline, “or I can't reach the stirrup. He's so tremendously high.”

Madeline had to yield to the laughing insistence of her friends, and after all of them except Florence were up she made Majesty go down on one knee. Then she stood on his left side, facing back, and took a good firm grip on the bridle and pommel and his mane. After she had slipped the toe of her boot firmly into the stirrup she called to Majesty. He jumped and swung her up into the saddle.

“Now just to see how it ought to be done watch Florence,” said Madeline.

The Western girl was at her best in riding-habit and with her horse. It was beautiful to see the ease and grace with which she accomplished the cowboys' flying mount. Then she led the party down the slope and across the flat to climb the mesa.

Madeline never saw a group of her cowboys without looking them over, almost unconsciously, for her foreman, Gene Stewart. This afternoon, as usual, he was not present. However, she now had a sense—of which she was wholly conscious—that she was both disappointed and irritated. He had really not been attentive to her guests, and he, of all her cowboys, was the one of whom they wanted most to see something. Helen, particularly, had asked to have him attend the match. But Stewart was with the cattle. Madeline thought of his faithfulness, and was ashamed of her momentary lapse into that old imperious habit of desiring things irrespective of reason.

Stewart, however, immediately slipped out of her mind as she surveyed the group of cowboys on the links. By actual count there were sixteen, not including Stillwell. And the same number of splendid horses, all shiny and clean, grazed on the rim in the care of Mexican lads. The cowboys were on dress-parade, looking very different in Madeline's eyes, at least, from the way cowboys usually appeared. But they were real and natural to her guests; and they were so picturesque that they might have been stage cowboys instead of real ones. Sombreros with silver buckles and horsehair bands were in evidence; and bright silk scarfs, embroidered vests, fringed and ornamented chaps, huge swinging guns, and clinking silver spurs lent a festive appearance.

Madeline and her party were at once eagerly surrounded by the cowboys, and she found it difficult to repress a smile. If these cowboys were still remarkable to her, what must they be to her guests?

“Wal, you-all raced over, I seen,” said Stillwell, taking Madeline's bridle. “Get down—get down. We're sure amazin' glad an' proud. An', Miss Majesty, I'm offerin' to beg pawdin for the way the boys are packin' guns. Mebbe it ain't polite. But it's Stewart's orders.”

“Stewart's orders!” echoed Madeline. Her friends were suddenly silent.

“I reckon he won't take no chances on the boys bein' surprised sudden by raiders. An' there's raiders operatin' in from the Guadalupes. That's all. Nothin' to worry over. I was just explainin'.”

Madeline, with several of her party, expressed relief, but Helen showed excitement and then disappointment.

“Oh, I want something to happen!” she cried.

Sixteen pairs of keen cowboy eyes fastened intently upon her pretty, petulant face; and Madeline divined, if Helen did not, that the desired consummation was not far off.

“So do I,” said Dot Coombs. “It would be perfectly lovely to have a real adventure.”

The gaze of the sixteen cowboys shifted and sought the demure face of this other discontented girl. Madeline laughed, and Stillwell wore his strange, moving smile.

“Wal, I reckon you ladies sure won't have to go home unhappy,” he said. “Why, as boss of this heah outfit I'd feel myself disgraced forever if you didn't have your wish. Just wait. An' now, ladies, the matter on hand may not be amusin' or excitin' to you; but to this heah cowboy outfit it's powerful important. An' all the help you can give us will sure be thankfully received. Take a look across the links. Do you-all see them two apologies for human bein's prancin' like a couple of hobbled broncs? Wal, you're gazin' at Monty Price an' Link Stevens, who have of a sudden got too swell to associate with their old bunkies. They're practisin' for the toornament. They don't want my boys to see how they handle them crooked clubs.”

“Have you picked your team?” inquired Madeline.

Stillwell mopped his red face with an immense bandana, and showed something of confusion and perplexity.

“I've sixteen boys, an' they all want to play,” he replied. “Pickin' the team ain't goin' to be an easy job. Mebbe it won't be healthy, either. There's Nels and Nick. They just stated cheerful-like that if they didn't play we won't have any game at all. Nick never tried before, an' Nels, all he wants is to get a crack at Monty with one of them crooked clubs.”

“I suggest you let all your boys drive from the tee and choose the two who drive the farthest,” said Madeline.

Stillwell's perplexed face lighted up.

“Wal, that's a plumb good idee. The boys'll stand for that.”

Wherewith he broke up the admiring circle of cowboys round the ladies.

“Grap a rope—I mean a club—all you cow-punchers, an' march over hyar an' take a swipe at this little white bean.”

The cowboys obeyed with alacrity. There was considerable difficulty over the choice of clubs and who should try first. The latter question had to be adjusted by lot. However, after Frankie Slade made several ineffectual attempts to hit the ball from the teeing-ground, at last to send it only a few yards, the other players were not so eager to follow. Stillwell had to push Booly forward, and Booly executed a most miserable shot and retired to the laughing comments of his comrades. The efforts of several succeeding cowboys attested to the extreme difficulty of making a good drive.

“Wal, Nick, it's your turn,” said Stillwell.

“Bill, I ain't so all-fired particular about playin',” replied Nick.

“Why? You was roarin' about it a little while ago. Afraid to show how bad you'll play?”

“Nope, jest plain consideration for my feller cow-punchers,” answered Nick, with spirit. “I'm appreciatin' how bad they play, an' I'm not mean enough to show them up.”

“Wal, you've got to show me,” said Stillwell. “I know you never seen a gol-lof stick in your life. What's more, I'll bet you can't hit that little ball square—not in a dozen cracks at it.”

“Bill, I'm also too much of a gent to take your money. But you know I'm from Missouri. Gimme a club.”

Nick's angry confidence seemed to evaporate as one after another he took up and handled the clubs. It was plain that he had never before wielded one. But, also, it was plain that he was not the kind of a man to give in. Finally he selected a driver, looked doubtfully at the small knob, and then stepped into position on the teeing-ground.

Nick Steele stood six feet four inches in height. He had the rider's wiry slenderness, yet he was broad of shoulder. His arms were long. Manifestly he was an exceedingly powerful man. He swung the driver aloft and whirled it down with a tremendous swing. Crack! The white ball disappeared, and from where it had been rose a tiny cloud of dust.

Madeline's quick sight caught the ball as it lined somewhat to the right. It was shooting low and level with the speed of a bullet. It went up and up in swift, beautiful flight, then lost its speed and began to sail, to curve, to drop; and it fell out of sight beyond the rim of the mesa. Madeline had never seen a drive that approached this one. It was magnificent, beyond belief except for actual evidence of her own eyes.

The yelling of the cowboys probably brought Nick Steele out of the astounding spell with which he beheld his shot. Then Nick, suddenly alive to the situation, recovered from his trance and, resting nonchalantly upon his club, he surveyed Stillwell and the boys. After their first surprised outburst they were dumb.

“You-all seen thet?” Nick grandly waved his hand. “Thaught I was joshin', didn't you? Why, I used to go to St. Louis an' Kansas City to play this here game. There was some talk of the golf clubs takin' me down East to play the champions. But I never cared fer the game. Too easy fer me! Them fellers back in Missouri were a lot of cheap dubs, anyhow, always kickin' because whenever I hit a ball hard I always lost it. Why, I hed to hit sort of left-handed to let 'em stay in my class. Now you-all can go ahead an' play Monty an' Link. I could beat 'em both, playin' with one hand, if I wanted to. But I ain't interested. I jest hit thet ball off the mesa to show you. I sure wouldn't be seen playin' on your team.”

With that Nick sauntered away toward the horses. Stillwell appeared crushed. And not a scornful word was hurled after Nick, which fact proved the nature of his victory. Then Nels strode into the limelight. As far as it was possible for this iron-faced cowboy to be so, he was bland and suave. He remarked to Stillwell and the other cowboys that sometimes it was painful for them to judge of the gifts of superior cowboys such as belonged to Nick and himself. He picked up the club Nick had used and called for a new ball. Stillwell carefully built up a little mound of sand and, placing the ball upon it, squared away to watch. He looked grim and expectant.

Nels was not so large a man as Nick, and did not look so formidable as he waved his club at the gaping cowboys. Still he was lithe, tough, strong. Briskly, with a debonair manner, he stepped up and then delivered a mighty swing at the ball. He missed. The power and momentum of his swing flung him off his feet, and he actually turned upside down and spun round on his head. The cowboys howled. Stillwell's stentorian laugh rolled across the mesa. Madeline and her guests found it impossible to restrain their mirth. And when Nels got up he cast a reproachful glance at Madeline. His feelings were hurt.

His second attempt, not by any means so violent, resulted in as clean a miss as the first, and brought jeers from the cowboys. Nels's red face flamed redder. Angrily he swung again. The mound of sand spread over the teeing-ground and the exasperating little ball rolled a few inches. This time he had to build up the sand mound and replace the ball himself. Stillwell stood scornfully by, and the boys addressed remarks to Nels.

“Take off them blinders,” said one.

“Nels, your eyes are shore bad,” said another.

“You don't hit where you look.”

“Nels, your left eye has sprung a limp.”

“Why, you dog-goned old fule, you cain't hit thet bawl.”

Nels essayed again, only to meet ignominious failure. Then carefully he gathered himself together, gaged distance, balanced the club, swung cautiously. And the head of the club made a beautiful curve round the ball.

“Shore it's jest thet crooked club,” he declared.

He changed clubs and made another signal failure. Rage suddenly possessing him, he began to swing wildly. Always, it appeared, the illusive little ball was not where he aimed. Stillwell hunched his huge bulk, leaned hands on knees, and roared his riotous mirth. The cowboys leaped up and down in glee.

“You cain't hit thet bawl,” sang out one of the noisiest. A few more whirling, desperate lunges on the part of Nels, all as futile as if the ball had been thin air, finally brought to the dogged cowboy a realization that golf was beyond him.

Stillwell bawled: “Oh, haw, haw, haw! Nels, you're—too old—eyes no good!”

Nels slammed down the club, and when he straightened up with the red leaving his face, then the real pride and fire of the man showed. Deliberately he stepped off ten paces and turned toward the little mound upon which rested the ball. His arm shot down, elbow crooked, hand like a claw.

“Aw, Nels, this is fun!” yelled Stillwell.

But swift as a gleam of light Nels flashed his gun, and the report came with the action. Chips flew from the golf-ball as it tumbled from the mound. Nels had hit it without raising the dust. Then he dropped the gun back in its sheath and faced the cowboys.

“Mebbe my eyes ain't so orful bad,” he said, coolly, and started to walk off.

“But look ah-heah, Nels,” yelled Stillwell, “we come out to play gol-lof! We can't let you knock the ball around with your gun. What'd you want to get mad for? It's only fun. Now you an' Nick hang round heah an' be sociable. We ain't depreciatin' your company none, nor your usefulness on occasions. An' if you just hain't got inborn politeness sufficient to do the gallant before the ladies, why, remember Stewart's orders.”

“Stewart's orders?” queried Nels, coming to a sudden halt.

“That's what I said,” replied Stillwell, with asperity. “His orders. Are you forgettin' orders? Wal, you're a fine cowboy. You an' Nick an' Monty, 'specially, are to obey orders.”

Nels took off his sombrero and scratched his head. “Bill, I reckon I'm some forgetful. But I was mad. I'd 'a' remembered pretty soon, an' mebbe my manners.”

“Sure you would,” replied Stillwell. “Wal, now, we don't seem to be proceedin' much with my gol-lof team. Next ambitious player step up.”

In Ambrose, who showed some skill in driving, Stillwell found one of his team. The succeeding players, however, were so poor and so evenly matched that the earnest Stillwell was in despair. He lost his temper just as speedily as Nels had. Finally Ed Linton's wife appeared riding up with Ambrose's wife, and perhaps this helped, for Ed suddenly disclosed ability that made Stillwell single him out.

“Let me coach you a little,” said Bill.

“Sure, if you like,” replied Ed. “But I know more about this game than you do.”

“Wal, then, let's see you hit a ball straight. Seems to me you got good all-fired quick. It's amazin' strange.” ere Bill looked around to discover the two young wives modestly casting eyes of admiration upon their husbands. “Haw, haw! It ain't so darned strange. Mebbe that'll help some. Now, Ed, stand up and don't sling your club as if you was ropin' a steer. Come round easy-like an' hit straight.”

Ed made several attempts which, although better than those of his predecessors, were rather discouraging to the exacting coach. Presently, after a particularly atrocious shot, Stillwell strode in distress here and there, and finally stopped a dozen paces or more in front of the teeing-ground. Ed, who for a cowboy was somewhat phlegmatic, calmly made ready for another attempt.

“Fore!” he called.

Stillwell stared.

“Fore!” yelled Ed.

“Why're you hollerin' that way at me?” demanded Bill.

“I mean for you to lope off the horizon. Get back from in front.”

“Oh, that was one of them durned crazy words Monty is always hollerin'. Wal, I reckon I'm safe enough hyar. You couldn't hit me in a million years.”

“Bill, ooze away,” urged Ed.

“Didn't I say you couldn't hit me? What am I coachin' you for? It's because you hit crooked, ain't it? Wal, go ahaid an' break your back.”

Ed Linton was a short, heavy man, and his stocky build gave evidence of considerable strength. His former strokes had not been made at the expense of exertion, but now he got ready for a supreme effort. A sudden silence clamped down upon the exuberant cowboys. It was one of those fateful moments when the air was charged with disaster. As Ed swung the club it fairly whistled.

Crack! Instantly came a thump. But no one saw the ball until it dropped from Stillwell's shrinking body. His big hands went spasmodically to the place that hurt, and a terrible groan rumbled from him.

Then the cowboys broke into a frenzy of mirth that seemed to find adequate expression only in dancing and rolling accompaniment to their howls. Stillwell recovered his dignity as soon as he caught his breath, and he advanced with a rueful face.

“Wal, boys, it's on Bill,” he said. “I'm a livin' proof of the pig-headedness of mankind. Ed, you win. You're captain of the team. You hit straight, an' if I hadn't been obstructin' the general atmosphere that ball would sure have gone clear to the Chiricahuas.”

Then making a megaphone of his huge hands, he yelled a loud blast of defiance at Monty and Link.

“Hey, you swell gol-lofers! We're waitin'. Come on if you ain't scared.”

Instantly Monty and Link quit practising, and like two emperors came stalking across the links.

“Guess my bluff didn't work much,” said Stillwell. Then he turned to Madeline and her friends. “Sure I hope, Miss Majesty, that you-all won't weaken an' go over to the enemy. Monty is some eloquent, an', besides, he has a way of gettin' people to agree with him. He'll be plumb wild when he heahs what he an' Link are up against. But it's a square deal, because he wouldn't help us or lend the book that shows how to play. An', besides, it's policy for us to beat him. Now, if you'll elect who's to be caddies an' umpire I'll be powerful obliged.”

Madeline's friends were hugely amused over the prospective match; but, except for Dorothy and Castleton, they disclaimed any ambition for active participation. Accordingly, Madeline appointed Castleton to judge the play, Dorothy to act as caddie for Ed Linton, and she herself to be caddie for Ambrose. While Stillwell beamingly announced this momentous news to his team and supporters Monty and Link were striding up.

Both were diminutive in size, bow-legged, lame in one foot, and altogether unprepossessing. Link was young, and Monty's years, more than twice Link's, had left their mark. But it would have been impossible to tell Monty's age. As Stillwell said, Monty was burned to the color and hardness of a cinder. He never minded the heat, and always wore heavy sheepskin chaps with the wool outside. This made him look broader than he was long. Link, partial to leather, had, since he became Madeline's chauffeur, taken to leather altogether. He carried no weapon, but Monty wore a huge gun-sheath and gun. Link smoked a cigarette and looked coolly impudent. Monty was dark-faced, swaggering, for all the world like a barbarian chief.

“That Monty makes my flesh creep,” said Helen, low-voiced. “Really, Mr. Stillwell, is he so bad—desperate—as I've heard? Did he ever kill anybody?”

“Sure. 'Most as many as Nels,” replied Stillwell, cheerfully.

“Oh! And is that nice Mr. Nels a desperado, too? I wouldn't have thought so. He's so kind and old-fashioned and soft-voiced.”

“Nels is sure an example of the dooplicity of men, Miss Helen. Don't you listen to his soft voice. He's really as bad as a side-winder rattlesnake.”

At this juncture Monty and Link reached the teeing-ground, and Stillwell went out to meet them. The other cowboys pressed forward to surround the trio. Madeline heard Stillwell's voice, and evidently he was explaining that his team was to have skilled advice during the play. Suddenly there came from the center of the group a loud, angry roar that broke off as suddenly. Then followed excited voices all mingled together. Presently Monty appeared, breaking away from restraining hands, and he strode toward Madeline.

Monty Price was a type of cowboy who had never been known to speak to a woman unless he was first addressed, and then he answered in blunt, awkward shyness. Upon this great occasion, however, it appeared that he meant to protest or plead with Madeline, for he showed stress of emotion. Madeline had never gotten acquainted with Monty. She was a little in awe, if not in fear, of him, and now she found it imperative for her to keep in mind that more than any other of the wild fellows on her ranch this one should be dealt with as if he were a big boy.

Monty removed his sombrero—something he had never done before—and the single instant when it was off was long enough to show his head entirely bald. This was one of the hall-marks of that terrible Montana prairie fire through which he had fought to save the life of a child. Madeline did not forget it, and all at once she wanted to take Monty's side. Remembering Stillwell's wisdom, however, she forebore yielding to sentiment, and called upon her wits.

“Miss—Miss Hammond,” began Monty, stammering, “I'm extendin' admirin' greetin's to you an' your friends. Link an' me are right down proud to play the match game with you watchin'. But Bill says you're goin' to caddie for his team an' coach 'em on the fine points. An' I want to ask, all respectful, if thet's fair an' square?”

“Monty, that is for you to say,” replied Madeline. “It was my suggestion. But if you object in the least, of course we shall withdraw. It seems fair to me, because you have learned the game; you are expert, and I understand the other boys have no chance with you. Then you have coached Link. I think it would be sportsmanlike of you to accept the handicap.”

“Aw, a handicap! Thet was what Bill was drivin' at. Why didn't he say so? Every time Bill comes to a word thet's pie to us old golfers he jest stumbles. Miss Majesty, you've made it all clear as print. An' I may say with becomin' modesty thet you wasn't mistaken none about me bein' sportsmanlike. Me an' Link was born thet way. An' we accept the handicap. Lackin' thet handicap, I reckon Link an' me would have no ambish to play our most be-ootiful game. An' thankin' you, Miss Majesty, an' all your friends, I want to add thet if Bill's outfit couldn't beat us before, they've got a swell chanct now, with you ladies a-watchin' me an' Link.”

Monty had seemed to expand with pride as he delivered this speech, and at the end he bowed low and turned away. He joined the group round Stillwell. Once more there was animated discussion and argument and expostulation. One of the cowboys came for Castleton and led him away to exploit upon ground rules.

It seemed to Madeline that the game never would begin. She strolled on the rim of the mesa, arm in arm with Edith Wayne, and while Edith talked she looked out over the gray valley leading to the rugged black mountains and the vast red wastes. In the foreground on the gray slope she saw cattle in movement and cowboys riding to and fro. She thought of Stewart. Then Boyd Harvey came for them, saying all details had been arranged. Stillwell met them half-way, and this cool, dry, old cattleman, whose face and manner scarcely changed at the announcement of a cattle-raid, now showed extreme agitation.

“Wal, Miss Majesty, we've gone an' made a foozle right at the start,” he said, dejectedly.

“A foozle? But the game has not yet begun,” replied Madeline.

“A bad start, I mean. It's amazin' bad, an' we're licked already.”

“What in the world is wrong?”

She wanted to laugh, but Stillwell's distress restrained her.

“Wal, it's this way. That darn Monty is as cute an' slick as a fox. After he got done declaimin' about the handicap he an' Link was so happy to take, he got Castleton over hyar an' drove us all dotty with his crazy gol-lof names. Then he borrowed Castleton's gol-lof coat. I reckon borrowed is some kind word. He just about took that blazin' coat off the Englishman. Though I ain't sayin' but that Casleton was agreeable when he tumbled to Monty's meanin'. Which was nothin' more 'n to break Ambrose's heart. That coat dazzles Ambrose. You know how vain Ambrose is. Why, he'd die to get to wear that Englishman's gol-lof coat. An' Monty forestalled him. It's plumb pitiful to see the look in Ambrose's eyes. He won't be able to play much. Then what do you think? Monty fixed Ed Linton, all right. Usually Ed is easy-goin' an' cool. But now he's on the rampage. Wal, mebbe it's news to you to learn that Ed's wife is powerful, turrible jealous of him. Ed was somethin' of a devil with the wimmen. Monty goes over an' tells Beulah—that's Ed's wife—that Ed is goin' to have for caddie the lovely Miss Dorothy with the goo-goo eyes. I reckon this was some disrespectful, but with all doo respect to Miss Dorothy she has got a pair of unbridled eyes. Mebbe it's just natural for her to look at a feller like that. Oh, it's all right; I'm not sayin' any-thin'! I know it's all proper an' regular for girls back East to use their eyes. But out hyar it's bound to result disastrous. All the boys talk about among themselves is Miss Dot's eyes, an' all they brag about is which feller is the luckiest. Anyway, sure Ed's wife knows it. An' Monty up an' told her that it was fine for her to come out an' see how swell Ed was prancin' round under the light of Miss Dot's brown eyes. Beulah calls over Ed, figgertively speakin', ropes him for a minnit. Ed comes back huggin' a grouch as big as a hill. Oh, it was funny! He was goin' to punch Monty's haid off. An' Monty stands there an' laughs. Says Monty, sarcastic as alkali water: 'Ed, we-all knowed you was a heap married man, but you're some locoed to give yourself away.' That settled Ed. He's some touchy about the way Beulah henpecks him. He lost his spirit. An' now he couldn't play marbles, let alone gol-lof. Nope, Monty was too smart. An' I reckon he was right about brains bein' what wins.”

The game began. At first Madeline and Dorothy essayed to direct the endeavors of their respective players. But all they said and did only made their team play the worse. At the third hole they were far behind and hopelessly bewildered. What with Monty's borrowed coat, with its dazzling effect upon Ambrose, and Link's oft-repeated allusion to Ed's matrimonial state, and Stillwell's vociferated disgust, and the clamoring good intention and pursuit of the cowboy supporters, and the embarrassing presence of the ladies, Ambrose and Ed wore through all manner of strange play until it became ridiculous.

“Hey, Link,” came Monty's voice booming over the links, “our esteemed rivals are playin' shinny.”

Madeline and Dorothy gave up, presently, when the game became a rout, and they sat down with their followers to watch the fun. Whether by hook or crook, Ed and Ambrose forged ahead to come close upon Monty and Link. Castleton disappeared in a mass of gesticulating, shouting cowboys. When that compact mass disintegrated Castleton came forth rather hurriedly, it appeared, to stalk back toward his hostess and friends.

“Look!” exclaimed Helen, in delight. “Castleton is actually excited. Whatever did they do to him? Oh, this is immense!”

Castleton was excited, indeed, and also somewhat disheveled.

“By Jove! that was a rum go,” he said, as he came up. “Never saw such blooming golf! I resigned my office as umpire.”

Only upon considerable pressure did he reveal the reason. “It was like this, don't you know. They were all together over there, watching each other. Monty Price's ball dropped into a hazard, and he moved it to improve the lie. By Jove! they've all been doing that. But over there the game was waxing hot. Stillwell and his cowboys saw Monty move the ball, and there was a row. They appealed to me. I corrected the play, showed the rules. Monty agreed he was in the wrong. However, when it came to moving his ball back to its former lie in the hazard there was more blooming trouble. Monty placed the ball to suit him, and then he transfixed me with an evil eye.

“'Dook,' he said. I wish the bloody cowboy would not call me that. 'Dook, mebbe this game ain't as important as international politics or some other things relatin', but there's some health an' peace dependin' on it. Savvy? For some space our opponents have been dead to honor an' sportsmanlike conduct. I calculate the game depends on my next drive. I'm placin' my ball as near to where it was as human eyesight could. You seen where it was same as I seen it. You're the umpire, an', Dook, I take you as a honorable man. Moreover, never in my born days has my word been doubted without sorrow. So I'm askin' you, wasn't my ball layin' just about here?'

“The bloody little desperado smiled cheerfully, and he dropped his right hand down to the butt of his gun. By Jove, he did! Then I had to tell a blooming lie!”

Castleton even caught the tone of Monty's voice, but it was plain that he had not the least conception that Monty had been fooling. Madeline and her friends divined it, however; and, there being no need of reserve, they let loose the fountains of mirth.

Excellent Readings: Sonnet CI by William Shakespeare (in English)

O truant Muse what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixed;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermixed'?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
   Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
   To make him seem, long hence, as he shows now.

Tuesday's Serial: "Ubirajara: lenda tupy" by José de Alencar (in Portuguese) - II

 

CAPÍTULO III — A NOIVA

Ao raiar da luz no céo, Jandyra abriu os lindos olhos negros.

Seu canto foi o primeiro que saudou o nascer do dia e acordou em seu ninho a viuvinha.

A doce filha de Magé saltou da rêde que embalara os sonhos castos da virgem; despediu-se della como o jaçanan que deixa a moita para habitar o ninho do amor.

A virgem tocantim acreditava ter dormido a ultima noite na cabana paterna, que essa manhã ia trocar pela cabana do esposo.

O joven caçador que a amava, Jaguarê, fora acclamado guerreiro, e entre todos os guerreiros o chefe da nação.

Como guerreiro elle póde tomar uma esposa; e como chefe pertence-lhe a virgem de sua escolha, entre as mais formosas da taba.

Ainda que a virgem tenha um noivo, ou que o pai a destine a outro, si o chefe a deseja, a vontade de Tupan é que lhe pertença.

Tupan assim ordena para que os grandes chefes possam gerar de seu sangue os mais bellos e valentes guerreiros.

Jaguarê antes de ser acclamado chefe já a tinha escolhido e Jandyra não aceitaria outro noivo sinão o joven caçador a quem amava.

Ella o espera. Logo que o sol allumie a terra, Ubirajara, o grande chefe, ha de vir buscal-a.

Então a virgem se despedirá de Magé; e irá armar na cabana de seu guerreiro e senhor a rêde da esposa.

Ligeira e contente corre a banhar-se no rio antes que chegue Ubirajara, para quem purifica seu corpo e unge-se com o oleo fragrante do sassafraz.

Ella quer que o destemido guerreiro ache seu amor saboroso como o vinho que espuma na taça e ferve nas veias.

Tornando á cabana, perfumou de beijoim a larga rêde que tecêra dos fios do algodão entrelaçados com as pennas do guará.

Essa rêde tinha duas vezes o tamanho de sua rêde de virgem, porque era a rêde do casamento, em que devia receber o esposo.

Depois arrumou no uru a louça que havia fabricado para o serviço do guerreiro e que devia transportar á sua nova cabana.

Quando terminou todos os preparativos, encostou-se á porta da cabana; seus olhos impacientes chamavam Ubirajara.

Mas o guerreiro não vinha e o sol já tinha subido além da crista da serra.

A luz do dia derramava a alegria pelos campos; e a alegria que lhe afogara os sonhos da noite fugia agora da alma de Jandyra.

Então, a filha de Magé partiu em busca do noivo que a esquecera.

No mais escuro da matta vaga o chefe dos araguayas.

Seus olhos fogem á luz do dia e buscam a sombra, onde encontram a imagem que traz na lembrança.

A' noite, quando o guerreiro dormia em sua rêde solitária, Aracy, a linda virgem, lhe appareceu em sonho, e lhe falou.

— Jaguarê, joven caçador, tu dormes descansado emquanto os guerreiros tocantins se preparam para roubar a virgem de teus amores. Ergue-te e parte, si não. queres chegar tarde.

Elle erguera-se para seguil-a; mas a virgem formosa desferiu a corrida veloz atravez da campina e desappareceu na floresta.

Neste ponto do sonho o guerreiro acordára.

Uma estrella brilhante listrava o céo, como uma lagrima de fogo, e Ubirajara pensou que era o rasto de Aracy, a filha da luz.

A jurity arrulhou docemente na matta e Ubirajara lembrou-se da voz maviosa da virgem do sol.

O guerreiro tornou á rêde, esperando achar ali outra vez o sonho que visitára sua alma; porém o somno fugira de seus olhos.

 

Quando raiou a primeira alvorada, Ubirajara saiu da cabana e buscou no mais espesso da matta a sombra propicia á saudade.

Seu passo o guiava sem querer para as bandas do grande rio, onde devia ficar a taba dos tocantins.

E' assim que os coqueiros, immoveis na praia, inclinam para o nascente seu verde cocar.

Ubirajara ouviu o rumor de um passo ligeiro atravez da matta; de longe conheceu Jandyra que o procurava.

A doce virgem achara á porta da cabana o rasto do guerreiro e o seguira atravez da floresta.

— Que mau sonho afflige Ubirajara, o senhor da lança e o maior dos guerreiros, chefe da grande nação araguaya, para que elle se afaste de sua taba e esqueça a noiva que o espera?

— A tristeza entrou no coração de Ubirajara, que não sabe mais dizer-te palavras de alegria, linda virgem.

— A tristeza é amarga; quando entra no coração do guerreiro o enche de fel. Mas Jandyra fará como sua irmã, a abelha, ella fabricará em seus labios os favos mais doces para seu guerreiro; suas palavras serão os fios de mel que ella derramará na alma do esposo.

— Filha de Magé, doce virgem, ainda não chegou o dia em que Ubirajara escolha uma esposa; nem elle sabe ainda qual o seio que Tupan destinou para gerar o primeiro filho do grande chefe dos araguayas.

 

O labio de Jandyra emmudeceu; mas o peito soluçou.

A virgem conheceu que o amor de Ubirajara retirava-se della e que de todo o perderia si o não defendesse.

Então escondeu a dôr no fundo d'alma e chamou o riso a seus labios, a alegria a seus olhos.

Ella sabia que os guerreiros amam a flôr da formosura, como a folhagem da arvore; e que a tristeza murcha a graça da mais linda virgem.

—Chefe dos araguayas, Ubirajara, não desprezes Jandyra que outr'ora escolheste para tua noiva. Si então ella era formosa a teus olhos, mais formosa se fará para merecer teu amor. Tu gostavas de seus cabellos negros que arrastam no chão; ella os entrançará com as plumas vermelhas do guará para que te pareçam mais bonitos. Seus olhos negros que te falavam, ella os cercará de uma listra amarella como os olhos da jaçanan. Sua boca, que ainda não provaste, Jandyra a encherá de amor para que bebas nella o contentamento.

Jandyra esperou a palavra de Ubirajara; mas os labios mudos do guerreiro não se abriram.

— Teu amor, Ubirajara, ficará em meu seio como a flôr no valle. Jandyra te dará muitos filhos e todos dignos de teu valor. Nestes peitos que te pertencem, ella os nutrirá com seu sangue, não menos guerreiro do que o teu; porque é o sangue de Magé, o maior dos anciãos, depois de Camacan. Seus braços, que outr'ora querias para tua cintura, não servirão unicamente para te abraçarem, mas tambem para te servirem. Tua esposa te acompanhará por toda a parte: na taba, como no campo do combate; ella cuidará de tua cabana; apromptará as mais saborosas iguarias para seu guerreiro e fabricará para elle o vinho, que é a alma da festa.

— Jandyra é a mais bella das virgens araguayas. Seu amor fará a ventura de um guerreiro valente. Ubirajara não podia achar para si uma esposa mais fiel; nem para seus filhos outra mãi tão fecunda. Mas a noite desceu em sua alma. Só a estrella do dia póde restituir-lhe a alegria que o abandonou. A filha de Magé merece um guerreiro que tenha olhos para a sua formosura.

 

Pojucan sentou-se pensativo á porta da cabana.

O semblante, sempre grave, como convém a um chefe, cobre-se de tristeza.

A noite que foge da terra, vencida pelo sol, parece recolher-se n'alma do chefe tocantim.

Não é sua ferida que o faz soffrer. O balsamo suave da embaiba sara rapidamente os golpes mais profundos; e os varões tocantins aprendem desde o berço a desprezar a dôr.

E' em seu coração de guerreiro que Pojucan sente as garras do Anhanga.

O revez de ser vencido e cair prisioneiro, elle supporta como o varão forte que viu prostrados por Aresky no campo da batalha os mais terriveis guerreiros.

A grandeza do vencedor o consola; restaIhe ainda a gloria de ter resistido a um braço, como o de Ubirajara, grande chefe dos araguayas.

Mas elle esperava que, depois de haver ornado com sua presença a festa do triumpho, o vencedor fosse generoso e lhe concedesse a honra do sacrifício.

E' o temor de que Ubirajara lhe recuse uma morte gloriosa e o retenha captivo, que nesse momento acabrunha o chefe dos tocantins. Elle, um guerreiro livre que pisára outr'ora como senhor aquelles campos, reduzido á condição de escravo?

Elle, um varão chefe que tinha na obediencia de seu arco mais de mil guerreiros valentes, obrigado a reconhecer um dono?

Elle, que affrontava a colera de Tupan, quando o deus irado rugia do céo, curvar-se ao aceno de um homem, fosse embora o mais pujante dos filhos da terra?

Pojucan estremecia quando se lembrava de que podia ser condemnado a tão grande humilhação.

Mas seu terror promovia o passo, com o impeto de fugir para sempre da taba dos araguayas, onde o ameaçava aquella vergonha.

Mas uma forca invencivel atava-lhe a vontade. Elle não se pertencia desde o momento em que Ubirajara calcou-lhe a mão direita no hombro.

Esse era o signal da conquista, que prendia o vencido ao vencedor; aquelle que violasse a lei da guerra, perderia para sempre o nobre titulo de guerreiro. O desprezo do inimigo o acompanharia aos seus nativos; e a taba de seus irmãos não se abriria para o fugitivo que houvesse deshonrado o nome de sua nação.

Por isso, na cabana solitária, Pojucan está mais guardado do que si o cercasse a multidão dos guerreiros araguayas.

Véla elle próprio em si, porque véla em sua fama.

Póde Ubirajara esquecel-o que na volta o encontrará ali onde o deixou.

Nada o arrancará da cabana; nem a necessidade de buscar o alimento para o corpo.

Bem vinda será a fome, si durar tanto que prostre seu corpo robusto e o entregue ao seio da terra, onde o guerreiro dorme o som no da gloria.

Além rompe da selva Ubirajara, que se encaminha para a cabana com o passo rapido.

 

Segue-o de perto Jandyra, como a gentil corça acompanha o caçador, que lhe rouba o companheiro.

Descobrindo o chefe dos araguayas, Pojucan encerrou a tristeza dentro de sua alma e chamou ao rosto a altivez dos grandes guerreiros.

O chefe tocantim não queria que seu vencedor se regozijasse de ter-lhe abatido o animo inflexivel.

 

Quando Ubirajara approximou-se da cabana, Pojucan tomou-lhe o passo.

— Ubirajara, senhor da lança, grande chefe da nação araguaya, não confessaste tu diante dos anciões das tabas e de todos os teus guerreiros que Pojucan era o varão mais forte e mais terrível no combate que o sol tinha visto até o momento de ser vencido por ti?

— Ubirajara o disse. E' a voz da nação araguaya.

— Desde que tu cruzaste commigo a setta do desafio até este momento, Pojucan, guerreiro varão, e chefe de uma taba, na valente nação dos tocantins, mostrou-se pela sua constancia e valor digno do sangue de seus avós?

— Pojucan o disse e a fama o repete.

— Então por que Ubirajara, o grande chefe dos araguayas, não concede a Pojucan a morte gloriosa, que os tocantins jamais recusaram a um guerreiro valente, e que sómente se nega aos fracos? Já não serviu Pojucan á tua gloria na festa do triumpho? Esperas delle que te obedeça como um escravo? Si aviltas o varão, a quem venceste, humilhas o teu valor que elle exaltava.

O grande chefe araguaya ouviu sem interromper o prisioneiro e respondeu com gravidade:

— Ubirajara não recusa ao bravo chefe tocantim, seu terrível inimigo, o supplicio, que não negaria a qualquer guerreiro valente. Elle esperava que tua ferida se fechasse de todo, para que o grande Pojucan possa no dia do ultimo combate sustentar a fama de seu nome, e gloria de um varão que só foi vencido por Ubirajara.

O grande chefe dos araguayas levou aos labios a inubia de Camacan; a voz do mando reboou pelo vasto âmbito da taba.

Appareceram vinte jovens guerreiros, a quem elle ordenou que chamasse a conselho os anciões.

Depois tornou ao chefe tocantim:

 

— Os araguayas receberam de seus avós o costume das nações que Tupan creou. Elles destinam ao prisioneiro a mais bella e a mais illustre de todas as virgens da taba, para que ella conserve o sangue generoso do heróe inimigo e augmente a nobreza e o valor de sua nação.

— É esta tambem a lei que os guerreiros tocantins observam em suas tabas.

— A mais bella e mais nobre de todas as virgens araguayas, aquella que se ergue como a palmeira no meio da campina coberta de flores é Jandyra, a filha de Magé, que tem no seio os doces favos da abelha.

Travando então do pulso de Jandyra, que ali ficara presa de sua vista, levou-a ao prisioneiro.

— Recebe-a como esposa do tumulo.

Jandyra, que ouviu espavorida aquellas palavras, quiz fugir; porém a mão do chefe araguaya a reteve.

— Ubirajara parte, mas elle voltará para assistir a teu supplicio e vibrar-te o ultimo golpe. Pojucan terá a gloria de morrer pela mão do mais valente guerreiro.

 

Ficaram Jandyra e Pojucan em face um do outro.

— Virgem dos araguayas, Tupan te reservou para esposa do mais terrível dos inimigos de tua nação. O filho de seu sangue será o mais valente dos guerreiros; tu sentirás orgulho por havel-o gerado em teu seio.

— Pojucan, chefe tocantim, Jandyra nunca será tua esposa.

— Não é Ubirajara o chefe de tua nação e não te destinou elle para servir de noiva do tumulo ao guerreiro que vai morrer no supplicio?

— Ubirajara é o grande chefe da nação araguaya; á sua voz cala-se a palavra dos anciões; a seu gesto curva-se a fronte dos guerreiros; á sua vontade obedecem as tabas. Mas no amor de Jandyra, ninguém manda, nem Tupan. Jandyra é noiva de Ubirajara, e si elle não quizer aceital-a, o guanumby a levará para os campos alegres onde repousam as virgens, que morreram.

— Pojucan não carece do amor de Jandyra. Nas tabas dos tocantins a mais bella das virgens se regozijaria de pertencer ao mais valente dos chefes e de habitar sua rêde. Nas tabas dos araguayas, onde nascem guerreiros como Ubirajara, não faltarão virgens formosas, que desejem a gloria de ser mãi de um filho de Pojucan.

— Jandyra seria a primeira, si não conhecesse Jaguarê, o mais bello dos jovens caçadores, que é hoje Ubirajara, o senhor da lança e chefe dos chefes. Pojucan merece uma esposa que nunca tenha ouvido o canto de outro guerreiro, para dar-lhe um filho digno delle.

— Os ritos de tua nação não punem a noiva que rejeita o prisioneiro?

— Jandyra sabe que se sujeita á morte; mas a morte é menos cruel do que o abandono.

— Então, foge, virgem dos araguayas; e esconde-te á cólera dos anciões. Talvez mais tarde Ubirajara se arrependa e te perdoe.

— Jandyra parte. Ella te deseja uma esposa terna e a morte gloriosa.

A filha de Magé penetrou na floresta e afastou-se rapidamente da taba.

Quando já estava muito longe, sentou-se á sombra de um manacá coberto de flôres e cantou:

— Eu fui Jandyra, a linda abelha, que fabricava os favos de cera para enchel-os de mel saboroso.

«Agora me arrancaram as minhas asas, com que eu voava pela campina, colhendo o pó das flores e seccou a doçura de meu sorriso.

«O canto que saía de meu seio era como o da patativa ao pôr do sói, quando se recolhe a seu ninho de paina macia.

«Agora eu queria ter no coração uma serpente para morder aquella que me roubou o amor de meu guerreiro.

«Guardei a minha formosura para orgulho do esposo e inveja dos outros guerreiros.

«Agora eu trocaria a flor do meu rosto por um aspecto terrível que infundisse pavor.

«Meus seios mais lindos que os botões do cardo por um peito feroz e as mãos ligeiras que tecem os fios do algodão pelas garras do jaguar.

«Eu fui Jandyra, o manacá viçoso que se-vestia de flores azues e brancas.

«Agora sou como o jussará que perdeu a folha e só tem espinhos para ferir aquelles que se lhe chegam.

 

Os anciões já estavam reunidos, na oca do conselho, quando Ubirajara entrou.

Fallou Camacan:

— Ubirajara, senhor da lança, chefe dos chefes, os pais da grande nação araguaya escutam a tua voz.

O grande chefe tres vezes bateu no chão com a ponta do arco e disse:

— Pojucan, o chefe tocantim, pede a morte do combate; elle a merece, porque é um grande guerreiro e um varão illustre. Ubirajara concedeu-lhe essa honra, como seu vencedor.

— Ubirajara é um inimigo generoso; respondeu Camacan.

Todos os anciões inclinaram gravemente a cabeça encanecida para exprimirem sua approvação ás palavras de Camacan.

Proseguiu Ubirajara:

— E' tempo de escolher para o prisioneiro uma esposa digna de acompanhar em seus ultimos dias ao heróe inimigo e de ser mãi do marabá, o filho da guerra.

Todos os abarés desejavam para si a gloria de offerecer uma filha ao prisioneiro.

— Ubirajara destinou-lhe Jandyra, filha de Magé. Ella o merece por sua formosura e pelo sangue do grande guerreiro que giraem suas veias.

— Ubirajara é um grande chefe; disse Camacan.

Os anciões approvaram outra vez com a cabeça; Magé accrescentou:

 

— O sangue do velho Magé não desmintirá em Jandyra a fama da nação araguaya.

— Não! disse Ubirajara e todos os anciões repetiram: — Não!

O grande chefe tornou com a voz pausada:

— Celebrai a cerimonia da entrega da esposa ao prisioneiro. Ubirajara parte; só estará de volta na proxima lua para assistir ao supplicio de Pojucan. Si na ausencia de Ubirajara cair na taba a flecha, nuncia da guerra, conduzi o trocano ao sitio onde se abraçam os grandes rios e soltai a voz da nação araguaya. Nesse dia Ubirajara será comvosco.

Os prudentes anciões, com a cabeça inclinada para melhor ouvir, recebiam as palavras do grande chefe e as guardavam na memoria.

Quando Ubirajara se calou, Camacan repetiu ainda, mais pausado, as recommendações do filho:

— E' esta a vontade de Ubirajara?

— Tu o disseste.

— Os anciões guardaram a palavra do chefe dos chefes? perguntou ainda Camacan.

— Ella entrou no espirito dos abarés, como a raiz no seio da terra; observou Magé.

— Bem dito; repetiram todos.

Ubirajara saíu do carbeto; após elle os anciões se retiraram lentamente

 

 

CAPÍTULO IV — A HOSPITALIDADE

Na entrada do valle ergue-se a grande taba dos tocantins.

E' a hora em que as sombras abraçam os troncos das arvores e o sol descansa em meio da carreira.

A floresta emmudece e todos os viventes se abrigam da calma que abraza.

Ubirajara deixa o escuro da matta e caminha para a grande taba dos tocantins.

Quando chegou á distancia do tiro de uma flecha despedida pelo mais robusto guerreiro, tocou a inubia.

O guerreiro de vigia respondeu; e o chefe araguaya, quebrando a setta, alçou a mão direita para mostrar a senha da paz.

Então avançou para a taba; na entrada da caissara, que cercava o campo dos tocantins, atirou ao chão a setta partida.

Os guerreiros, que tinham acudido ao som da inubia, deixaram passar o estrangeiro sem inquerir donde vinha, nem o que o trouxera.

Era este o costume herdado de seus maiores; que o hospede mandava na taba aonde Tupan o conduzia.

Ubirajara passou entre os guerreiros e dirigiu-se á cabana mais alta que ficava no centro da ocara.

A figura do tocano, feita de barro pintado e collocada em cima da porta, dizia que era ali a cabana do grande chefe.

Mas Ubirajara já o sabia; pois, antes de penetrar na taba, subira á grimpa do mais alto cedro da floresta para conhecer o sitio onde habitava Aracy, a estrella do dia.

A cabana estava deserta naquelle instante, mas ouvia-se a falia das mulheres que trabalhavam no terreiro.

Ubirajara transpôz o limiar, e, levantando a voz, disse:

— O estrangeiro chegou.

Acudiram as mulheres e conduziram Ubirajara á presença do grande chefe dos tocantins.

Itaquê passava as horas da ardente calma á sombra da frondosa gamelleira, que podia abrigar cem guerreiros em baixo de sua rama.

Repousando dos combates, o formidavel guerreiro não desdenhava as artes da paz em que era tão consummado, como nas batalhas.

Assim honrava as fadigas da taba; dando o exemplo do trabalho á família de que era pai e á nação de que era chefe.

Nesse momento as mulheres collocadas em duas filas, com as mãos erguidas, urdiam os fios de algodão, passados pelos dedos abertos em fórma de pente.

Itaquê manejava a lançadeira, tão destro como na peleja vibrava o tacape. Sua mão ligeira tramava a teia de uma rêde, que entretecia das pennas douradas do gallo da serra.

Quando chegou Ubirajara, o grande chefe dos tocantins, depois de ter rematado a urdidura, entregou a lançadeira ao guerreiro Pirajá, que estava a seu lado, e veiu ao encontro do hospede.

— O estrangeiro veiu á cabana de Itaquê, grande chefe da nação tocantim; disse Ubirajara.

— Bem vindo é o estrangeiro á cabana de Itaquê, grande chefe da nação tocantim.

Então o tuxava voltou-se para Jacamim, a mãi de seus filhos:

— Jacamim, prepara o cachimbo do grande chefe, para que elle e o estrangeiro troquem a fumaça da hospitalidade.

Os mensageiros já corriam pela taba, avisando os guerreiros moacaras da vinda do hospede á cabana de Itaquê.

Os moacaras, revestidos de seus ornatos de festa, se encaminharam com o passo grave á oca principal, afim de honrar o hospede do grande chefe da nação tocantim.

Ali chegados, cada um dirigiu ao estrangeiro a pergunta da hospitalidade e deu-lhe a boa vinda.

 

Depois que Itaquê offereceu a Ubirajara o cachimbo da paz, e com elle trocou a fumaça da hospitalidade, os cantores entoaram a saudação da chegada:

«O hospede é mensageiro de Tupan. Elle traz a alegria á cabana; e quando parte leva comsigo a fama do guerreiro que teve a fortuna de o acolher.

«Nas tabas por onde passa e na terra de seus pais, elle conta aos velhos, que depois ensinam aos moços, as proezas dos heróes que viu em seu caminho e de quem recebeu o abraço da paz.

«O hospede é mensageiro de Tupan. Elle traz comsigo a sabedoria; na cabana do guerreiro, que tem a fortuna de o acolher, todos o escutam com respeito.

«Em suas palavras prudentes, os anciões da taba aprendem, para ensinar aos moços, os costumes dos outros povos, as façanhas de guerras desconhecidas por elles e as artes da paz, que o estrangeiro viu em suas viagens.

«O hospede é mensageiro de Tupan. O primeiro que appareceu na taba dos avós da nação tocantim foi Sumé, que veiu donde a a terra começa e caminhou para onde a terra acaba.

«Delle aprenderam as nações a plantar a mandioca para fazer a farinha; e a tirar do cajú e do ananaz o generoso cauim, que alegra o coração do guerreiro.

«O hospede é mensageiro de Tupan. Quando o estrangeiro entra na cabana, o guerreiro que tem a fortuna de o acolher, não sabe si elle é um chefe illustre ou o grande Sumê que volta de sua viagem.

«O sabio ensina por onde passa os segredos da paz e o heróe as façanhas da guerra; mas ambos deixam na cabana da hospitalidade a gloria de ter abrigado um grande varão.

«O hospede é mensageiro de Tupan. Por seu caminho vai deixando a abundancia e a festa; depois do banquete da boa vinda as arvores vergam com os fructos e a caça não cabe na floresta.

«A cabana, que fecha a poria ao hospede, o vento a arranca, o fogo do céo a abraza. O guerreiro, que não se alegra com a chegada do hospede, vê murchar ao redor de si a esposa, os filhos, as mulheres e as roças que elle plantou.

«Bem vindo seja o estrangeiro na cabana de Itaquê, o grande chefe da nação tocantim, que teve a gloria de ser escolhido pelo hospede.

«Os guerreiros exultam com a honra de seu chefe, e os cantores te saúdam, mensageiro de Tupan.»

Emquanto na cabana resôa o canto da boa vinda, Jacamim, a esposa de Itaquê, chamou as amantes do marido, suas servas, para ajudal-a a preparar o banquete da hospitalidade.

As servas pressurosas estenderam á sombra da gamelleira as alvas esteiras de palmas entrançadas de airy, e collocaram sobre ellas os urus cheios de farinha d'agua.

Trouxeram tambem os camocins rasos, onde se apinhavam as moquecas envoltas em folhas de banana e peças de carne, assada no biariby, que ainda fumegava nos pratos feitos de concha de tartaruga.

Depois suspenderam a caça mais volumosa, veados e antas, assim como as igaçabas bas de cauim, nos ramos inclinados da arvore, em altura que o braço do guerreiro pudesse alcançar.

Fructas de varias especies, pencas douradas de banana, cachos roxos de assahy, os rubros croás e os fragmentos abacaxis, enchiam o giráo levantado no meio do terreiro.

 

Jacamim conduzira o hospede á sombra da gamelleira, onde, o esperava o banquete da chegada.

Ao lado de Ubirajara sentou-se Itaquê e depois os moacaras que tinham vindo para a festa da hospitalidade.

Os guerreiros comeram em silencio. As mulheres diligentes os serviam, enchendo de vinho de caju e ananaz as largas combucas, tintas com a pasta do crajurú que dá o mais brilhante carmim.

Quando o hospede, depois de satisfeito o appetite, lavou o rosto e as mãos, Jacamim ordenou ás servas que recolhessem os restos das provisões e retirou-se com ellas.

Tambem afastaram-se os jovens guerreiros, que ainda não tinham voz no conselho. Só ficaram sentados com o hospede Itaquê e os moacaras, senhores das cabanas.

O cachimbo do grande chefe passou de mão em mão e cada ancião bebeu a fumaça da herva de Tupan, que inspira a prudencia no carbeto.

Então disse o chefe:

— Itaquê deseja dar a seu hospede um nome que lhe agrade; e precisa que o ajude a sabedoria dos anciões.

A lei da hospitalidade não consentia que se perguntasse o nome ao estrangeiro que chegava nem que se indagasse de sua nação.

Talvez fosse um inimigo; e o hospede não devia encontrar na cabana, onde se acolhia, sinão a paz e a amizade.

O chefe, que tinha a fortuna de receber o viajante, escolhia o nome de que elle devia usar emquanto permanecia na cabana hospedeira.

Foi Ipé quem primeiro fallou:

— Tu chamarás ao hospede Jutay, porque sua cabeca domina o cocar dos mais fortes guerreiros, como a copa do grande pinheiro apparece por cima da matta.

Disse Tapy:

— Chama ao hospede Boitatá, porque elle tem os olhos da grande serpente de fogo, que voa como o raio de Tupan.

Os moacaras, cada um por sua vez, fallaram; e como a voz começava do mais moço para acabar no mais velho, as ultimas fallas eram menos guerreiras e traziam a prudencia da idade.

Assim Caraúba, que era o segundo antes do chefe, disse.

— Itaquê, o hospede é o núncio da paz. Tu deves chamal-o Jutorib, porque elle trouxe a alegria á tua cabana.

Guaribú, cujos annos enchiam a corda de sua existência de mais nós do que os que tem o velho cipó da floresta, fallou por ultimo.

— O viajante é senhor na terra que elle pisa como hospede e amigo; e o nome é a honra do varão illustre, porque narra sua sabedoria. Pergunta ao estrangeiro como elle quer ser chamado na taba dos tocantins.

— Bem dito!

Itaquê, approvando as palavras prudentes do ancião, perguntou a Ubirajara que nome escolhia; este respondeu:

— Eu sou aquelle que veio trazido pela luz do céo. Chama-se Jurandyr.

Nesse momento, Aracy, a estrella do dia, appareceu por entre as palmeiras e caminhou para a cabana.

Os mais valentes entre os jovens guerreiros tocantins acompanhavam a formosa caçadora. Eram os servos do amor, que disputavam a belleza da virgem.

Os cantores saudaram de novo o hospede pelo nome que elle escolhera:

— Tu és aquelle que veio trazido pela luz do céo. Nós te chamaremos Jurandyr; para que te alegres ouvindo o nome de tua escolha.

«Tu és aquelle que veio trazido pela luz do céo. Nós te chamaremos Jurandyr; e o nome de tua escolha alegrará o ouvido dos guerreiros.»

 

De longe, Aracy viu o estrangeiro, sentado entre os anciões, como o frondoso jacarandá no meio dos velhos troncos das aroeiras.

A virgem reconheceu logo o caçador araguaya de Itaquê para disputar sua belleza aos guerreiros tocantins.

O coração de Aracy encheu-se de alegria. Seus negros cabellos estremeceram de contentamento, como as pennas do jaçanan quando presente o formoso inverno.

O estrangeiro não queria ser conhecido; pois deixara o cocar das plumas da arara, que eram o ornato guerreiro de sua nação. Mas a imagem do joven caçador ficara na lembrança da virgem, como fica na terra a verde folhagem, depois da lua das aguas.

A lei da hospitalidade prohibia á virgem revelar o segredo do estrangeiro, só della sabido. Nesse momento foi á sua alma que obedeceu e não ao costume da nação.

Quando Aracy chegou ao terreiro, os anciões se preparavam para ouvir a maranduba do hospede. Os guerreiros e as mulheres escutavam em silencio.

O estrangeiro começou:

— Jurandyr é moço; ainda conta os annos pelos dedos e não viveu bastante para saber o que os anciões da grande nação tocantim aprenderam nas guerras e nas florestas.

«O moço é tapyr que rompe a matta e vôa como a setta. O velho é o jaboty prudente que não se apressa.

«O tapyr erra o caminho e não vê por onde passa. O jaboty observa tudo e sempre chega primeiro.

«Jurandyr é moço; mas conhece as grandes florestas; e atravessou mais rios do que as veias por onde corre o sangue valente de seu pai.

«A primeira agua em que Jaçanan, sua mai, o lavou, quando elle rasgou-lhe o seio, foi a do grande lago onde Tupan guardou as aguas do diluvio, depois que as retirou da terra.

«Ainda Jurandyr não era um caçador, quando elle se banhou no pará sem fim, onde os rios despejam a sua corrente e cujas aguas, quando dormem, se mudam em sal.

«Duas vezes Jurandyr seguiu o pai dos rios, desde a grande montanha onde nasce, até a várzea sem fim que elle enche com suas aguas.

«Elle viu o grande rio combater com o mar, no tempo da pororoca. Os dois chefes tocam a inubia antes da peleja, para chamar seus guerreiros.

«Vem de um lado as aguas do mar, são os guerreiros azues, com pennachos de araruna; vem do outro as aguas do rio; são os guerreiros vermelhos com pennachos de nambú.

«Começa a batalha. Os guerreiros se enrolam, como a corrente da cochoeira, batendo no rochedo; a terra estremece com o trovão das aguas.

«Mas o grande rio agarra o mar pela cintura. Arranca do chão o inimigo; carrega-o nos hombros; solta o grito de triumpho.

«Por muito tempo os Tetivas, que habitam sobre as arvores, vêm passar correndo as aguas do mar; são os guerreiros azues que fogem espavoridos e vão esconder-se na sombra das florestas.

«Jurandyr também viu a terra onde habitam as mulheres guerreiras, senhoras de seu corpo, que vivem em baixo das aguas do grande rio.

«Só ellas sabem o segredo das pedras verdes, que tornam os guerreiros captivos do seu amor, sem prival-as da liberdade.

«Por isso todas as luas, grande numero de guerreiros as visitam em sua taba; e ellas guardam para os mais valentes a flôr da sua belleza.

«Quando chega o tempo de vir o fructo do amor, guardam somente as filhas; e enviam aos guerreiros os filhos, de onde saem os maiores chefes.

«Feliz o guerreiro que acha uma terra valente e fecunda para a flor do seu sangue. O filho será maior do que elle; e o neto maior do que o filho.

«Sua geração vai assim crescendo de tronco em tronco; e fórma uma floresta de guerreiros, onde o ultimo cedro se ergue mais frondoso e robusto, porque recebe a seiva de seus avós.»

 

Quando Jurandyr proferiu as ultimas palavras, seus olhos, que tinham muitas vezes buscado Aracy, repousaram nella.

A virgem tocantim comprehendeu que o estrangeiro se referia a si, e não escondeu sua alegria, como não escondeu sua flôr a jukery que o rio beija.

A formosa caçadora cantou. Sua voz era limpida e sonora como o gorgejo do sabiá, quando se deleita com o calor do sol.

— Feliz a terra que recebe a semente do cedro frondoso e robusto; ella se cobrirá de sombra e frescura. Os guerreiros gostarão de reunir-se ahi para falar da paz e da guerra.

«Ella é como a virgem que um chefe illustre escolheu para sua esposa e que se povôa de uma prole numerosa. As nações a respeitam porque é a mãi de valentes guerreiros; os anciões escutam seu conselho na paz e na guerra

«As mulheres guerreiras, senhoras de seu corpo, são como a palmeira de murity, que rejeita o fructo antes que elle amadureça e o abandona á correnteza do rio. «A esposa não desprende de si o filho, sinão quando elle não chupa mais seu peito. Ella é como a mangabeira; nutre o fructo com seu leite, que é a flôr do seu sangue.

«Não é na terra das mulheres guerreiras que o estrangeiro deve buscar a esposa; mas na taba de sua nação, onde Tupan guarda para seu valor a mais bella das virgens, aquella que tem o sorriso de mel.

O hospede respondeu:

— Jurandyr sabe onde encontrará a virgem que deseja para esposa. A luz do céo o guia e nada resiste á força de seu braço.

Depois de responder ao canto de Aracy, o estrangeiro continuou sua maranduba que todos ouviram silenciosos.

Elle contou o que havia aprendido nas praias do mar, habitadas pela valente nação dos Tupynambás, descendentes da mais antiga geração de Tupy.

Os pagés dos Tupynambás lhe disseram que nas aguas do pará sem fim vivia uma nação de guerreiros ferozes, filhos da grande serpente do mar.

Um dia esses guerreiros saíram das aguas para tomarem a terra ás nações que a habitam; por isso os Tupynambás tinham descido ás praias do mar, para defendel-as contra o inimigo.

Os guerreiros do mar também tinham suas guerras entre si, como os guerreiros da terra. Então as aguas pulavam mais altas do que os montes; seu estrondo era como o trovão.

Jurandyr contou mais que nas praias do mar se encontrava uma resina amarella, muito cheirosa, a qual a grande serpente creava no bucho.

Os Tupynambás faziam dessa gomma contas para seus collares; Jurandyr mostrou a pulseira que lhe cingia o artelho, presente de um guerreiro daquella nação.

Essas contas tornavam o pé do guerreiro ágil na corrida e protegiam o viajante contra os caiporas da floresta, que se apartavam de seu caminho.

Muitas outras cousas referiu Jurandyr, e os anciões admira vam-se de ver o juizo prudente de um abaré no corpo joven de tão forte guerreiro.

Os mais velhos dos moacaras acreditaram que o hospede era filho de Sumé, mandado por seu pai correr as terras que o sábio tinha visto em sua mocidade.

Calaram porém seu pensamento, para o communicarem aos anciões quando se reunisse o carbeto da nação.

 

O sol já descia para as montanhas, quando terminou a festa da hospitalidade na cabana de Itaquê.

Os moacaras partiram. Itaguê, voltando á sua occupação, deixou o hospede senhor de sua vontade, para fazer o que lhe agradasse.

Vieram os jovens pescadores da taba com os anzóes e gequis saber do hospede que peixe elle preferia.

Depois delles chegaram os jovens caçadores, que antes de partirem para a floresta,, vinham receber os desejos do hospede.

Por fim aproximaram-se as mulheres que já tinham rompido o fio da virgindade; mas não eram nem esposas, nem amantes de guerreiros.

 

Essas eram as mulheres livres, que davam seu amor e o retiravam quando queriam, mas não recebiam a protecção de um guerreiro, nem podiam jamais ser mãis da prole.

Os filhos, concebidos no proprio seio, só tinham por mãi a esposa, que o guerreiro tomou por companheira de sua existência e raiz de geração.

O rito da hospitalidade entre os filhos da floresta manda que se dê ao estrangeiro amigo tudo que deleita ao guerreiro.

Por isso vinham as mocas offerecer a Jurandyr sua belleza, para que elle escolhesse entre ellas uma companheira, que partilhasse sua rêde na cabana hospedeira.

Todas se tinham enfeitado com seus mais bellos ornatos, para agradar aos olhos de Jurandyr; pois não havia para ellas maior gloria do que a de merecer o amor do estrangeiro.

Umas traziam as trancas urdidas com pennas vistosas dos pássaros de sua predilecção; outras haviam perfumado da essencia do sassafraz os cabellos soltos, que derramavam sua fragrância ao sopro da brisa. Chegando diante do estrangeiro, começaram uma dança amorosa para mostrar a graça de seu corpo. Aquellas que tinham a voz doce cantavam em louvor de Jurandyr.

Aracy fôra buscar seu balaio de palha vermelha, e sentara-se no terreiro, junto á porta da cabana. Seus dedos ágeis enfiavam as sementes de jequerity, de que fazia um ramala para seu collo gentil.

Emquanto compunha o collar, a virgem percebia que os olhos de Jurandyr abandonavam os encantos das mulheres e buscavam seu rosto. Mas ella voltava-se para a floresta; com o trinado de seus lábios chamava o crajuá, que voava no olho da palmeira. O passarinho illudido vinha cuidando ouvir o canto da companheira.

Jurandyr apartou as mulheres e disse:

As moças tocantins são formosas; qualquer delias alegraria o somno do estrangeiro. Mas Jurandyr não velo á cabana de Itaquê para gozar do amor de uma noite; elle veiu buscar a esposa que ha de acompanhal-o até á morte e a virgem que escolheu para mãi de seus filhos.

Quando Aracy ouviu estas palavras cobriu-se de sorrisos, como o guajerú se cobre de suas flores alvas e perfumadas, com os orvalhos da manhã.

Jurandyr voltou-se então para a virgem caçadora:

— Estrella do dia, Aracy, conduz-me á presença de Itaquê. E tempo que elle saiba o segredo do estrangeiro.

— Os sonhos disseram á Aracy, duas noites seguidas, que o joven caçador chegaria á cabana de Itaquê; ella te esperou. Quando meus olhos te viram sentado entre os moacaras, logo conheceram que tu vinhas buscar a esposa.

O estrangeiro respondeu:

— Jurandyr chegou á taba dos seus e recebeu um nome de guerra e o grande arco de sua nação. Mas a cabana do chefe estava deserta; e sua rêde não lhe guardou o somno tranquillo do guerreiro. Elle ouviu tua voz que o chamava, virgem tocantim, e ergueu-se , tua luz o guiou, filha do sol, e o trouxe á tua presença.