The boy's appearance too, seemed strange to the portenos -- as the inhabitants of Buenos Aires were called. As a child of the pampas, he had not inherited a romantic-looking figure. He was a stocky Indian with a short neck and rather ungainly walk. His thick native lips were for the most part unsmiling, although people noticed that he smiled with his eyes. His dress, in the opinion of the boys, was outlandish.

Another trait which provided them with endless amusement but which exasperated those in charge was his inability to cope with a timetable. He had no idea where and when he should be during the course of the day. Back in the pampas what need had he of either clock or bell when he had the sun and the shadows to guide him? But neither sun nor shadows existed in those dark rooms or among those tall buildings. Very often when the sun was high he would stroll outside in the open air. When he returned it would still be high. But he would find himself facing an irate foreman demanding where he had been for the last hour! His personal habits, too, were primitive. He did not known how to use a knife and fork, and in the beginning could not force himself even to sleep in a regular bed. He preferred to sleep on the floor until one night he was lifted up bodily, thrown back to bed, and ordered to sleep there like a Christian, and not on the floor like a savage!

The boys found him an easy prey for every trick. They tied his bed in knots, hid bottles which flooded the bed. Once while he was asleep they daubed his forehead with axle grease. When the spot began to itch, Zepherin kept rubbing it. The next morning he found his whole face covered with grease!

A more serious difficulty arose from the fact that some of these boys had relatives who had fought against the Indians. Naturally they were bitter and resented the presence of an Indian. One of them, Ruiz by name, of heavy build and blustering manner, took particular delight in baiting him. Half the time he did not understand what Ruiz was saying and for the other half pretended not to.

Not long after his entry into the workshop, he and Ruiz were put to work at the same bench. Ruiz mumbled something not quite intelligible about the Indians. From the snickers of the others, Zepherin gathered that it was offensive.

Ruiz raised his voice. "Know what I'd do with all those Indians who came scrounging to Buenos Aires?" he asked. "I'd hang them on the trees along the avenue with their damn boleadoras!"

Zepherin flushed. He know Ruiz was referring to those unfortunate Indians he had seen wandering the streets who had told him their sad story. They had been brought from the interior to Buenos Aires, having been promised work and reunion with their families. But when they arrived some had not been able to do the work offered, while others had been given no work at all. What was even worse, many of their families had been sent to another city. Completely abandoned, without work, and without their loved ones, the only thing left for them had been to beg, to starve, or as a last resort, to steal.

Unkind remarks about himself he had learned to disregard. What he found impossible to ignore were the remarks offensive to his people. It was clear that those around him considered the Indians an inferior people whom they had beaten into submission. But even in his anger he know he should not lose control of himself. The happiness of too many depended on his success.

Ruiz raised his voice again. "And do you know what I'd do with their women? I'd --"

"Stop it!" The cry escaped from Zepherin before he could prevent it.

This was exactly what Ruiz had hoped for. It gave him an excuse to attack Zepherin openly. Now he had the chance to vent his spite on one of these savages!

"Who are you talking to?" he shouted. "You'd hang before the others. We know all about your family. Your father was their leader and he's nothing but a traitor, a thief and an assassin! And your grandfather --"

Zepherin could stand it no longer. He rushed at Ruiz. Ruiz raised his fist to strike but Zepherin, seeing the move, butted him in the stomach; and when Ruiz' head was forced down, Zepherin brought his own head sharply up and dealt his antagonist a blow on the chin. Like a wounded bull, Ruiz shook his head, glared at Zepherin for a moment, the charged.

Zepherin waited. No longer was he a bewildered boy in a strange place among strange people. Now he was an Araucano, son of the cacique, facing a challenge.

When Ruiz leaped forward, Zepherin sidestepped, and bending low, kicked against the other's knees with such force he lifted his attacker off his feet. Ruiz fell flat on his face. Although the fall winded him, he rose quickly and lunged again. Zepherin seized the outstretched hand, jerked it forward and hit the elbow with his fist. The boys heard a crack like the snapping of a branch followed by a scream. Throwing his arm around Ruiz' neck, Zepherin snapped his head up with such force that Ruiz toppled backwards. As Ruiz fell, Zepherin caught hold of his uninjured arm, placed his foot on his neck and pulled, rendering him powerless.

Ruiz rolled his eyes in agony. "Help me!" he moaned. "Help me!"

To save Ruiz from more serious injury, the others in a body rushed Zepherin, allowing Ruiz to rise. They pushed him into a corner, and staring at him now more in fear than in disdain, followed the hapless, moaning Ruiz out of the workshop.

When they had gone, Zepherin slumped down on the stool beside his bench, and rested his head on his arm. He felt no elation at his victory, no pride in having chastised his tormentor. All he experienced was a sense of defeat. It was all over. Of what use to tell his people that the difficulties had been too great. He was the son of the cacique. To overcome difficulties was expected of him, the way it had been expected of his grandfather and father. To think of what he had intended to accomplish and then to see all his dreams swept away, all his hopes crushed! Now he would have to go back and tell his father. . .

He tensed. His keen ears had detected furtive sounds; his instincts came into play. Without the slightest motion of his body, he opened his eyes and peered about him. He wasn't going to allow anyone to take him by surprise. Ruiz and his cronies might be coming back to seek revenge . .

"Aaah!" A cry of triumph cut short his speculation.

Even before he heard the cry, he felt two strong hands bind his arms to his sides and a knee in his back pin him to the bench. While he was waiting for he know not what, he was unexpectedly released. Turning quickly, he looked up into the face of -- Manuel!

Had his father been wearing Indian dress Zepherin would have thought that he was back in the tolderia. But, instead, Manuel was dressed in the huinca clothes he had been wearing when they had set out together for Buenos Aires. Zepherin jumped to his feet, threw his arms around his father and held him tightly.

"So quickly you have forgotten your training and allowed the enemy to creep up on you!" scolded Manuel. "Very bad. Cousin Bernard will be disappointed." Manuel kept up the banter for a while. Then he stopped; his eyes puckered. "Something wrong, my son?" he asked. "You seem very sad. What has happened?"

Slowly Zepherin unfolded the story of what had taken place and of the events leading up to it. As he spoke, his father's face remained immobile but his eyes began to blaze. His powerful hand closed over the handle of a carpenter's hatched lying on the bench. Both hand and hatched trembled ever so slightly. Even before Zepherin had finished, Manuel, hatchet in hand, already had risen to his feet.

"Let us find these cowardly huincas!" he shouted. "We are only two, but we shall show them that we do not fight only when we outnumber the enemy. Take me to them!"

Zepherin was thoroughly upset. He know his father would have faced the huincas single-handedly, but this would not undo the harm already done. If the cacique killed any of the huincas it would only make things even worse.

"No, no! Please, Papa! Do not punish anybody!" He put his arms around his father to restrain him. "Our people would only suffer for it! Besides, I've punished the guilty one already."

Whether it was the thought that his son had successfully defended himself, or that he might be jeopardizing the interests of his people, Zepherin did not know. But his father hesitated, debating with himself. Finally, with a bellow of range and frustration, he drew back his arm. Pointing with his free hand to the picture of a general hanging on the wall about forty feet away, he threw the hatchet at it. Zepherin heard a soft whistle, a splinter of glass, a thud, and the hatchet buried itself halfway into the head of the general. The success of the throw pleased the cacique. He grew calmer, his breathing became easier, his body relaxed. Finally, he turned to his son.

"Leave this place," he ordered, rejecting everything with a gesture of contempt. "It is foul and full of carrion." Taking his son by the hand, he led him out of the academy.

When Manuel stepped across the threshold of the residence of former President Luis Saenez Peņa, he seemed to acquire a new dignity. For the occasion he had donned the uniform of a colonel of the army -- the honor bestowed on him by President Roca -- and to fortify himself for the encounter, he was recalling the days when he had treated this man as his peer.

Amigo! Saenz Peņa greeted the cacique, vigorously shaking his hand. "This is indeed an honor!"

As Manuel looked into the other's eyes, the old hardness in his own, born from decades of dealing with the enemies of his people and the dispossessors of their lands, melted away. He know he was standing in the presence of a man who lived the Indians. The cacique had met him in 1884 when, after his surrender, he had gone to the capital to request land on which to settle his faithful warriors. Saenz Peņa had immediately granted his request.

For a moment he felt inclined to drop his guard . . . but no. Manuel Namuncura never dropped his guard before a huinca. To trust them was to be like a woman who trusts because she is weak and foolish. He bowed courteously, nevertheless. Even the gentry of Buenos Aires conceded that the cacique possessed a certain charm. Moreover, he had a mission to perform, a favor to ask.

"Seņor Presidente . . ." he began, when Saenz Peņa smilingly interrupted him.

"Come, come, Manuel," he chided gently. "Is this the way to treat an old friend? What's more, I am no longer president. Just a retired old politician whom nobody listens to any more." He motioned toward some chairs. Manuel chose one with a straight back. Saenz Peņa on the other hand, relaxed comfortably in an easy chair.

A servant appeared bearing a tray with a tall brown bottle and two squat green glasses. The former Argentine president filled the glasses with an amber liquid, offered on to Manuel, and raised the other. "La patria," he said and drank.

"La patria," Manuel repeated the toast, and drank with him.

Saenz Peņa set down his glass. "Now, Seņor Cacique," he said, "what important business brings you this time to the capital?"

"Seņor Saenz Peņa," began Manuel, "when I want help I always ask someone who possesses authority. So when I wanted to get my boy in a government position I went to my friend Seņor Luis Maria Campos."

"The minister of war?"

"When I first met him he was an officer and he was fighting against me. Later we became friends because he told me that, like you, he wanted to help my people. When I spoke to him about my problem he said that because my son Zepherin did not have any schooling the best thing for him would be to enter the Naval Academy. So he found a place for him."

At this point for no apparent reason Manuel stopped speaking and stared at the floor.

"Well" said his host. "Is he still there?"

"No."

"Why no?" Saenz Peņa became just a little impatient. "Why did he leave? Tell me exactly what happened."

"Very well. I shall not hide anything from my friend, and the friend of my people." Manuel proceeded in his own inimitable language to tell the retired president why Zepherin was no longer at the Naval Academy.

When Manuel came to the end of the dramatic account he then told Saenz Peņa how his people needed the skills of the whites if they were to be prevented from dying out. He outlined his plan to send a number of them to study at the great huinca center. It was for this reason he had placed Zepherin in the academy. Aware of the former president's affection for the Indian people, he thought that Saenz Peņa might use his influence to place the boy where the treatment would be less harsh. In support of his plea the cacique suggested that if this were to happen again the boy might become permanently embittered against the whites.

The former president, in turn, for perhaps the first time, became aware of the extend of the Indian tragedy. It was easy enough to dismiss their lot by telling oneself that when they were being accepted by the whites into their towns and cities, even into their homes, they were invariably coming into a far more comfortable set of circumstances. Here at least they always had food, clothing and shelter. If they could survive sleeping through long, bitterly cold nights in the empty wastes of the pampas with no more shelter than a hole in the side of a riverbank or a cave among the rocks -- surely they would find the white man's communities more than pleasant! During one winter he had come upon an entire family huddled together with only a few mangy guanaco skins to cover them; on another occasion he had seen a fierce pampero bury a mass of humanity with a mound of sand as if to punish them for daring to violate the utter desolation of the pampas.

But it was only by encountering a man like the cacique that helped him understand what the Indians must have suffered, how deep must have been the wounds inflicted on their pride. Here was Manuel -- a king among men -- who had once ruled over a territory large enough to dwarf what was then called Argentina. Now he was begging a lowly place for his son so that the boy might later offer a little hope to a once proud and independent people.

"The difficulty," Saenz Peņa said, "as Campos has already pointed out, is that the boy has had no formal schooling."

Manuel pursed his lips. "We did not think schooling was necessary to fight and hunt for one's food," he said slowly and in an even tone of voice.

The former president sipped thoughtfully at his liqueur. "From what you tell me," he said at last, "and from what has happened at the academy, I think I know what might be the answer. The men who run this place have already had a great deal to do with your people. Their leader is a friend of mine. I'm sure he will not refuse me this favor."

Manuel agreed to make this second try, and there the matter rested. After that the two men launched into an exchange of memories reaching back to the days when the pampas were disputed territory.