Milanesio pursed his lips. There was very little he could add to what Cagliero had already said. He took up the letter which bore the former president's personal seal. Although couched in polite and friendly terms the message was clear enough. Manuel had written to him, urging him to do all in his power to see that Zepherin was returned to his father and to his people. Saenz Pena confessed that he did not understand the cacique's attitude, but at the same time, since he had been responsible for placing the boy at San Carlos, he felt duty-bound to give the request every consideration. A refusal to do so might cause trouble, for the government was anxious to avoid giving the impression that they were forcing young Indians against their will to live with the whites. Would the bishop, therefore, see that the matter was dealt with in as amicable as manner as possible?

"Poor Zepherin!" commented Milanesio. "I'm glad, at any rate, if this had to happen that he is back here in Buenos Aires."

"I wonder how he's taking all this."

"Pretty hard. I saw him coming out of church this morning and he looked like a ghost. First there was Manuel's rejection of his mother. Then his father's message. He has been living in a state of shock. Up to then, you see, he had been walking on air. For him the impossible had happened when his father had given his permission. Then down comes the sledgehammer! He kept repeating, `Why, but why? What made my father change his mind so quickly?"

"I myself would like to know the answer to that questions," put in the bishop.

"I have a feeling that his main reason was fear that once the huincas got his son far enough away, he would never see him again. There have been too many cases where the whites did take the Indian children away from their parents and keep them as their own. He did not want anything like that happening to his favorite."

Cagliero stared at the floor. Only when Milanesio stopped speaking did he look up. "Go on, I'm listening."

"Or he might have been thinking of something else."

"Like what?'

"He knows only too well that the Indians living among the whites run great risks to their health. Their lack of immunity leaves them highly vulnerable to the white man's diseases, particularly tuberculosis. That's what killed his son Juan. Manuel never forgets that . He held Juan in his arms all night refusing to let anyone else touch him. He let him out of his arms only the following morning when the proof of death had become too evident. Who knows what dreams died with that boy! You can't blame him if he feels both disappointed and bitter. He probably harbors a suspicion that it was done purposely."

"So that's why he became concerned when he heard that Zepherin was sick! He may have thought that his son would have been safer with his own people."

"could be also that his switch has a much simpler reason."

"What do you mean?" the bishop asked.

"All his life," Milanesio replied, "Manuel has been accustomed to changing his mind on the least provocation, often as not without any provocation at all. In his heyday, his sudden changes of mind and the nonsensical reasons he advanced for them were a torment to the government. They never knew which way the wind was blowing. Manuel called it strategy; they called it stupidity."

"That means he thinks he can call the shots while we sit around waiting for his latest change of mind. Excellent! If he had some good, valid reasons I could sympathize with him. But since he's only out for his own selfish and, let me add, crazy ends -- if he thinks I'm going to sit back and let him ruin that boy's life, if he thinks that he's the only one who can --"

Cagliero snorted indignantly, stopping in mid-sentence, and turned in time to catch a smile forming on the other's lips. He glared at Milanesio for a moment in silence, then despite himself burst out laughing. "Oh, all right," he said. "But we must fight back."

"How?"

"Temporize. Let's hold up a reply to Saenz Pena as long as we decently can. No matter what he says in the letter I'm certain he's on our side and the side of the boy."

Cagliero started pacing up and down again. Then he stopped. "Call Zepherin," he said.

Milanesio rose and left the room.

In a few minutes he reappeared accompanied by Zepherin. The boy's eyes were red and he carried himself in a subdued manner. After embracing the boys the bishop reviewed all the circumstances which had led p to the cacique's sudden change of heart.

"Although I think your father acted wrongly and, I might add, rather oddly in this matter," said Cagliero, "we cannot forget that he is still your father and entitled to every consideration. Since he objects to having you sent away from your native country, I have decided to respect his wish and am sending you to a place very much near home. You will go to Viedma which not only is in Patagonia but is also closer to your father's reservation. How do you like that?"

Zepherin's eyes lit up. "Oh, I think that will make him very happy! But," he paused, "will I be able to carry out my studies?"

"We have recently opened a school there. You will not be losing time and your father will be satisfied."

The days that followed were filled with excitement for Zepherin. He was going to a place that would be better for his health; he was also returning to his native territory. But uppermost in his mind as he packed his simple belongings and bade farewell to his companions, was the thought that at last he was setting out on the long road that would lead to the fulfillment of his dream. In company with Bishop Cagliero, he boarded the train for Bahia Blanca, a little town 850 miles south of Buenos Aires, and the first leg of his journey to Viedma. The trip by train was comparatively comfortable. The rest was quite another story.

The railroad ended at Bahia Blanca and the remaining 450 miles had to be covered by galera. This would take from five to seven days, depending on the weather and the conditions of the terrain. It was unrealistic to speak of roads. Zepherin found this mode of travel packed with interest and adventure.

The galera carried twenty-four passengers and about a ton of luggage. It had two windows on each side, ran on four thick wheels and was drawn by twelve or fourteen horses, either spread out in a double line when traveling across the open pampa or arranged in tandem when the road was narrow. Horses were changed every twenty miles and their speed ranged from ten to twenty miles an hour. Although most of the route lay across level pampa, stretches of swampland and salt lakes were encountered and these often proved treacherous enough to cause damage to both cargo and passengers -- sometimes loss of life. Even under favorable conditions the voyage was thoroughly uncomfortable, and Zepherin was soon nursing a number of bruises.

The driver fascinated him. He was a highly picturesque character who sported a tall, conical straw hat, a scarf, wide pantaloons tucked into high boots of buffalo hide, and a leather jacket. He made of point of showing that his command of the coach was as absolute as that of any captain of his ship. He decided on the route, how fast or slow to go; he was sometimes polite to the passenger, sometimes not. Two assistants rode the outside horses. These assistant riders were famous for their ability to compose ditties on their colorful careers and to consume enormous quantities of aguardiente.

Whenever the coach got stuck among rocks and low shrubs or got bogged down in the sand, Zepherin joined the other passengers and put his sturdy young shoulder to the wheel. When the coach approached one of the rest stations along the route he thrilled to the blast of trumpets warning of arrival, the shots from the driver's revolver, and the shouts and cries of welcome. Even the bishop, he noticed, harmonized with the singing of the drivers as they changed horses, or when they found themselves along a stretch of open road; it made him wonder how the bishop know the songs of these rough men. Often enough he had to close his ears to the language when things did not go smoothly, or when the men grew impatient with the lackadaisical Indians who changed the horses.

On this particular trip passengers and crew were sobered by the sight of a coach lying upside down in the middle of the Rio Colorado -- a silent but ominous reminder of the dangers the traveler encountered in these wild regions which went by the general name of Patagonia.

Largely composed of enormous beds of shingles interlaced with rivers, lakes and swamps, Patagonia's vegetation consisted mainly of tussock grass, thorn bushes, and -- deeper inland -- shaggy, primeval forests. No roads crossed these vas stretches, but the terrain was fairly level, and in good weather, easy enough to travel on.

Spiritually speaking, Patagonia was very much of a desert, a refuge for the outlaw, the criminal and the adventurer, a frontier region where knife and gun settled disputes.

Cagliero's men had worked there since 1880, had built schools and churches, and had penetrated beyond the uppermost reaches of the snowcapped Cordilleras. They were the first to establish a permanent Mission in that territory since 1718, when the Indians had treacherously wiped out the last Jesuit outpost.

Here Zepherin felt very much at home. Ever since his grandfather had swept down from the Cordilleras, the Curas had controlled this whole region, and their stronghold had been based at Salinas Grandes, the site of Calfucura's massacre of his fellow Indians. After the death of Calfucura, Manuel held it until Roca brought it under Buenos Aires' control. Another important reason why Zepherin felt at home was that he was born at Chimpay, about 200 miles further up the Rio Negro.

On the way to Viedma, the coach stopped over at Fortin Mercedes, one of the original forts built by Francis Viedma against the English.

Here the travelers spent the night and the following morning Zepherin served the bishop's Mass. After Mass, Cagliero left him at his prayers. Later when he went to look for him he found him still on his knees. Cagliero called him softly at first. There was no response. He called a little louder, but still he got no response. For a moment he stood wondering. He had no way of knowing the trend of Zepherin's thoughts.

Since his arrival at Fortin Mercedes Zepherin had felt strangely disquieted. While inspecting the site of the former military outpost and walking along the banks of the Rio Negro, h e had experienced the odd sensation that somehow he had seen all this before. Yet he was quite certain that he had never been there as a child, nor had his father ever taken him so far east on his countless hunting trips.

Now, as he knelt before the little altar, slowly at first, thoughts, memories and figures assaulted his imagination. Here the ground about him had witnessed so many events intimately bound up with his being; here the Spaniards, whose blood he now knew ran in his veins, had lived and fought; here the soldiers of the republic had come to protect the new settlers; and here, too, his grandfather, his father and his brothers with their fierce malones had sown destruction and death.

How proud they had been to recount those tales which now filled him with shame and horror. What crimes they had perpetrated in their thirst for vengeance! What pictures his father and the other Indians had painted of these malones! The war cries, the shouts of settlers making a futile stand, the screams, the crack of musketry, the moans of the wounded and dying, the subdued, hopeless sobbing of women being borne into captivity. They had often told him how proud he should be of the part his grandfather and father had played in this warfare, in the debaucheries and the vices, in the secret murders and the open massacres! How right had not his mother been, after all, in her detestation of such inhuman atrocities!

How heavily these sins must lie on the heads of his people! The sweat dampened his brow even on that cold morning, and the burden of his prayer was that God may not look upon these sins of his people. He prayed that God might accept them as His children just as he had accepted the whites. In return he promised that he would spend his life trying to make amends. That would be his mission; that, he now saw clearly, was what God wanted of him. The fears flowed down his cheeks, his soul was flooded with consolation. Someone took hold of his shoulder and shook him. Raising his head he looked up into the troubled face of the bishop.

"Good heavens!" The voice was full of concern. "What's the matter?"

Zepherin rose and smiled through his tears. "Please do not worry about me, Bishop," he said. "It is over. I had a kind of nightmare but now I'm quite all right."

For the moment Cagliero said nothing so as nothing to embarrass the boy, but later he was to recall the incident and fit it into a patter which was gradually forming in his mind.