"Come."

Zepherin struggled to his feet and threading his way among the sleeping figures, followed his father out of the toldo.

As they walked side by side between the dying fires of the tolderia, the man and the boy presented a striking similarity. Both were stocky, well-formed and muscular. Their black hair, strong and smooth, was encircled by a bring cloth band; the cheekbones were high, the nose wide and large, the lips full. Their eyes were brown and deeply buried, but while those of the man held a fierce, hard and rather menacing look, those of the boy were softer and more compassionate. Although both were slightly bowlegged, their movements gave the impression of men possessing great agility.

As they walked past the nearest fire they found some Indians sprawled around it in sleep, one of them curled up dangerously close to the embers. Manuel chuckled, nodded to Zepherin, and then bent down. It was not the first time they had rolled a man clear of the fire. The smell of pulchu, a liquor brewed from berries and wild apples, lay heavy about the men; the scarred bones and lumps of charcoaled meat -- the remains of a hunting feast -- mingled with the ashes.

"Many a time," Manuel spoke almost to himself, "these pampas pounded to the thunder of a thousand hoofs, and a man could tire ten horses before he reached the limits of Indian territory, yet in all his travels he would never see the face of a single huinca."

They were climbing the side of a steep hill now, but neither betrayed fatigue. Finally, from the top of the hill, Zepherin saw below him the river Alumine, its waters no longer rust-brown but glistening in the moonlight like a freshly sharpened spearhead.

"Papa," he said, "if my grandfather had been so strong and so successful why did he not chase out the huincas?"

Manuel shook his head. "He mad one grave mistake in battle," he said Then he took up the story of his father's downfall . . .

In the end an exasperated government mustered an expeditionary army against Calfucura, and the two forces met in the Battle of San Carlos. So confident was he of the outcome, that, contrary to his usual strategy, he decided on open confrontation on foot! Placing himself at the head of 6,000 of his finest warriors, he advanced to the attack. He was then, according to Manuel, 107 years of age!

It was the bloodiest battle in the history of the pampas. At the opening, Calfucura had the best of it since those Indian fighting on the government side were loath to kill their fellows. When the government, however, shot a number of caciques as an example, they fought with even greater ferocity than the Indians of Calfucura. From that moment on the troops began to press back the Indians until at last, to Calfucura's shocked surprise, his warriors' lines broke and they fled in disorder.

This unbelievable reverse shattered the old cacique's spirit and he withdrew to his stronghold. Death followed quickly and he was mourned from the Andes to the Atlantic. Manuel buried with him his weapons, his silver ornaments, his clothes, and a supply of food. One by one his favorite horses were sacrificed and buried along the route his spirit would take on its way to the stars. Finally, his principal wife bowed her head while an elder with a wooden bowl crushed her skull so that she might join him. As the black smoke rose from the tolderia, they pressed his knees up to his chin and placed him in his grave, setting his face to the west. The oldest cacique pronounced the funeral oration, and from that moment Calfucura lived on only in the memory of his people.

Silence fell on father and son and, for a long time after, both sat watching the moon glide across the waters of the Alumine and bathe the pampas in silver.

Hardly daring to voice his thoughts, Zepherin hazarded the question: "When Calfucura died why did not one take up the fight against the hated huincas?"

"Someone did, my son."

Manuel confessed how he had wept bitterly over the death of his father. But there had been little time for weeping. A gran cacique had to be elected quickly to prevent Indian unity from dissolving; 220 chiefs quickly assembled to choose one.

In the ordinary way succession should have fallen on the eldest son, Milque Ucucura. Manuel, however, pointed out that Milque, incapable of leadership, would easily be defeated by their enemies. The discussion dragged on but when tribal war threatened, Manuel made his bid. Pretending to present a diversion, he put on such a display of military strength that the opposition at once compromised by electing a triumvirate composed of the three brothers, Manuel, Bernard and Alverito. Manuel, in effect, became gran cacique.

Born in Chile in 1811, during the Argentine Revolution, Manuel -- the name was taken at random from a huinca almanac -- was the sone of a white captive, one of Calfucura's thirty-two wives. He was reared in the strict code of the Araucanos. His mother, for instance, always took him with her while she dutifully plundered the houses of the settlers and went through the pockets of the dead. By the time he was fifteen he had already seen blood spilled in battle, and by observing his father in action, had mastered the art of war.

A magnificent specimen of the Araucanos, his body always reeked of sweat and smelt of horses. Yet he was fond of dancing and could play the drums and the Indian guitar. The most remarkable feature about him, however, were his eyes: he could fix them on a man for hours. His extraordinary skill, bravery and strength held something of the mythical for the superstitious Indians. Rebellious as the mane of a wild horse, he rejected huinca clothing, and while racing to the attack, would cry, "Manuel, King of the Pampas! Avenge those who died on our lands!" His hatred for the huincas "advancing beneath the Indian sun," was fanatic. Truth to him was as strange as honor; and no one ever saw him laugh. He went into battle lightly: a sheepskin saddle, a rolled-up poncho, a knife, a speak and a seventy-foot lasso in the use of which he was expert.

When the government organized an expedition against him, he smashed it. In 1875 he swept across the pampas capturing 200,000 head of cattle, 5,000 horses and a number of captives. Only then did he deign to talk peace. After signing a treaty he brazenly requested a subsidy. On the assumption that the government owed the Indians everything he asked for, he once went so far as to include a request for shoes with Louis XIV heels for Rosaria! During all this time he was shaping his boldest plan: an attack on Buenos Aires!

In 1874, however, a new element was introduced -- the Remington rifle. Oddly enough, the Indians had never taken to rifles. So far they had proved more than a match for ancient government muskets. The Remington, on the other hand, was quick-firing, easier to load, and carried much farther than a musket.

On the strength of this, the government decided that the time had come to call a reckoning. In 1876 they stormed Manuel's stronghold. Manuel, realizing that his hit-and-run tactics were doomed to failure, turned to diplomacy, offering friendship if the government would compensate him for the lands they had taken. Next he proposed to withdraw to a well-defined line if the government provided a new subsidy of cattle, mate and tobacco, and if each cacique were granted a salary from the government. He also complained that the Christians were beginning to steal his horses -- a switch he evidently had not thought possible! But by far the greatest threat to his security was the completion of a system of trench fortifications which rendered impossible the great malones of former times. Manuel hastily tried to conclude a final treaty. Too late! The government had already ordered against him four entire divisions!

From the campaign's outset, it was evident that General Julius Argentina Roca held the whip hand. Besides being far better equipped, he was a brilliant officer who know how to turn to his advantage every weakness of the Indians. He wisely avoided hand-to-hand fighting and used his Remington. In six short months he captured 14,000 warriors, freed hundreds of captive, seized a territory larger than France, and opened up the whole of southern Argentina. Seeing that their cause was lost, most of the chiefs surrendered. Indian power was thus broken, never to be regained.

"We were stronger," went on Manuel, "but the huinca possessed all the secrets. When the Christian could kill us, he did kill us; and if tomorrow he were allowed, he would destroy us. He taught us how to use tobacco, drink strong wine -- things that harm us. But he never taught us any of his skills, never revealed any of his secrets. Why does he set up his villages and towns among us? If it is help us, as he says, who do most of the houses he builds sell liquor to our Indians? I'll tell you why. Because he wants to murder us without being called assassin! His towns turn our young people into drunkards, robbers and evildoers. Far from huinca ways we live peaceful lives, become strong and worthy sons of our ancestors! So, my son, tell me: What do we owe the white man? What has he left us to take pride in? Nothing! When he conquered me what did he do? He gave me a small piece of land in Chimpay." Manuel's voice rose in indignation. "But even that was too good for me. They moved me into barren territory where nothing meets the eye by sand and scrub, where nothing fills the heart but sorrow. But they are my masters. I can only lower my head in shame and obey."

Manuel bowed his head. A moment later, he raised it again. "But I believe," he said fiercely, "we are not yet lost. There is still hope."

"How can that be, Papa?"

"Do you not see what is wrong with us? Why we have not been able to rise again?"

"No, Papa."

"It is because we do not possess the skills and secrets of the huinca. We must know what they know, do all they can do. We must have teachers who will teach us how to become their equals. Oh, to rise again! Perhaps, even to . . . " His voice trailed off.

"Papa, who will teach our people all these things?"

Annoyed because Zepherin had broken into his daydreaming, Manuel answered sharply, "Who should teach them if not their leaders? We the Cura shall teach them. Already I have sent one of my sons to Buenos Aires to study their military skills. Now I need another to learn their language, their way of measuring and counting, of doing business. This one will have to be very clever to learn so much."

The boy sat quite still. "Which of the Cura will that be, Papa?"

Manuel looked down at him. "The one I have chosen should already know." A moment of silence followed. "But you go back now, and think over what I have said. I, too, would like to think many things over."

Without a word the boy rose and walked back to the tolderia.

Once alone, Manuel let his thoughts drift back to what had happened after his defeat. He had been too ashamed to tell his favorite son the story of his final humiliation.

Having lost his empire and his army, he had gathered about him a few faithful warriors and fled across the pampas, stopping only whenever his sorcerers assured him that he was safe. Roca warned the other caciques that he would consider any aid to him an act of war. Yet when the Chileans, no friends of Argentina at the time, offered to help Manuel regain his power, he indignantly refused. How could he, he asked, allow foreign troops to make war on his own country?

On morning in December, 1882, Captain Jose Daza caught sight of something moving high among the snowy peaks of the Cordilleras. In a short time he had captured Rosaria, three sons and one daughter, all on their way to meet Manuel. Manuel, however, leaped on his horse and fled toward the Chilean frontier. His breakneck pace amazed the cavalry. At one point, his horse lost its footing and tumbled off the mountain ledge carrying its rider with it. It was not the horse that rose from the struggling mass, but Manuel, and he made his escape on foot.

In April of the following year, a band of Indians presented themselves at a mission station near the Chilean frontier. They were warriors of Manuel who, together with their families, were hiding in a valley of the Andes. Hunger and privation had forced them to arrange a surrender. Moved by the plight of the Indians, the missionary suggested to Manuel that he surrender directly to the commandant of the nearest fortress, assuring the cacique that far from wanting to wipe out the Indians, the government wished to incorporate them into the nation. Manuel agreed. TO his warriors he pointed out that he was giving in only because of them, urging them to surrender with him. They also agreed and his party of nine chiefs, 137 warriors and 185 other Indians set out.

As soon as he rode within sight of the fortress, he heard a bugle call. For one fearful moment he hesitated. Had the missionary been wrong? His fears were quickly dispelled when this sound was followed by the blare of trumpets and the roll of drums. The welcome reached its climax when the commandant of the fortress in the name of General Roca formally presented him with the uniform and sword of a colonel of the army!

Since this surrender closed the final chapter of what the military called the "Conquest of the Desert," Roca gave orders that Manuel was to be treated as one who was surrendering with his honor unsullied. Preparations were made to escort him to Buenos Aires and to present him to congress.

Eventually, dressed in his colonel's uniform and accompanied by Rosaria, members of his family and several chiefs, Manuel set out for the capital to obtain a settlement for his people. His appearance commanded respect. The leonine head, broad nose and thick lips were offset by his penetrating gaze, lively movements and overall geniality. Observers calculated his age to be around fifty -- actually he was seventy-three!

During his stay at Buenos Aires, he was a center of attraction. Newspapers wrote features about him. Invited to dinners, Manuel did not seem put out be the elegant dresses or society manners. Intrigued by his unruffled demeanor, one hostess asked him what he thought in general of the social affairs he attended. "Look," he replied good-humoredly, "among friends, anything goes!"

Face to face at last with Roca, his former enemy, he spoke a few words in Spanish. Then, as was his policy, he continued the conversation through his interpreter. This, he felt, afforded him greater prestige. Before the two men parted, Roca smiled, saying, "You were an old tiger."

"I, a tiger, "replied Manuel. "You, a lion!"

As Zepherin approached the tolderia, here and there a dog barked and the sound stirred something deep in him. Once the bark of a dog had been enough to alert a tolderia. But now . . . There was nothing to fear from any quarter. Not from the hated huincas. As his father had said, they could take nothing more from his people. Nor from any other tribes. They had long since lost their courage; many had even lost the will to carry on. Today who deserved to bear the once-proud title of Araucanos -- the Unconquerables? The Spanish invaders had given his people that title because they had never been able to conquer them the way they had conquered other Indians, simply by capturing their leaders. The Araucanos were too independent even of their own leaders for that, and had to be fought toldo by told. The task had proved too much for the conquistadors and they had finally given up.

As he walked up to his own told, a figure stepped out of the darkness, its head and shoulders covered with a shawl. Even if there had not been so much light from the full moon, he still would easily have recognized the person who confronted him.