THE notorious Manos Duras lived on an elevation of the mesa from which he could see the distant limits of Patagonia on the far horizon, and below, the wide, twisting curves of the river, beyond which stretched one end of the Rojas ranch.

His ranch-house, of adobe, was surrounded by other huts, or hovels, and a few corrals fenced in by old stockades, but only on rare occasions was any cattle to be found in them.

Everyone in the country knew where the ranch of Manos Duras was located; but very few ever cared to visit it, for the region had a bad name. Sometimes those who with a certain trepidation passed near by, felt reassured when they saw how solitary the place was. On the road leading up to the ranch house there were none of those barking and leaping long-haired dogs with blood-shot eyes and pointed ears who usually accompany the cowboy. Nor were any horses to be seen nibbling at the sparse grass in the corrals.

Manos Duras was away. Possibly he was roving up and down the banks of the Colorado where cattle were more abundant than along the Rio Negro. Or possibly he was roaming among the spurs of the Andes, going to pay a visit to his friends in the Bolson valley, settled for the most part by Chilian adventurers, or on his way to make a call on his acquaintances along the shores of the Andene lakes. These excursions of his to the mountains were usually undertaken for the purpose of disposing, in Chile, of the cattle he had “rustled” in the Argentine.

But at other times the Manos Duras ranch contained an extraordinary diversity of inhabitants. Wandering gauchos like himself took up their quarters in the adobe huts for weeks at a time without anyone’s ever discovering for a certainty where they came from nor where they were going.

The comisario of La Presa was beginning to feel uneasy about these mysterious visitors. He got little rest, for not a night went by that he did not fear that some scandalous depradation might occur. Yet day after day passed, and nothing happened to ruffle the calm of the settlement and its outskirts. At the gaucho’s ranch numerous heads of cattles were sold and skinned, and Manos Duras provided the whole region with meat. But, as no complaints of theft reached him, don Roque refrained from any investigation as to the source of the bandit’s flocks and herds.

Then one fine morning the gaucho’s companions disappeared, and Manos Duras continued living in solitude on his ranch; at last he too disappeared for a while, to the comisario’s infinite relief.

Suddenly he reappeared again, with three companions, evil-looking specimens out of whom no one could get a word. At the Galician’s it was asserted that they came from a distant valley of the mountain chain.

“They’re three good fellows who are out of luck,” said the gaucho. “Three pals of mine who are going to live up at the ranch until the white-livered rotters down yonder get through telling lies about them.”

One day of intense heat, Manos Duras sprang on his horse to go up to La Presa to make some purchases.

The Patagonian summer had begun with the violent ardor it displays in lands rarely cooled by rain, but where the winter temperatures go down to many degrees below zero. The parching soil seemed to tremble under the intensity of the sun’s hot brilliance. So strong was the radiation that straight lines took on a wave-motion in the dazzling glare, and the outlines of the mountains, the buildings and the people in the streets became oddly changed. These tricks of the blinding light doubled or even tripled the objects in the scene, giving the impression that this desert land was a region of lakes, where everything was reflected in a series of glittering surfaces. The mirages of the desert, these, which attract the attention of even the sons of the soil, so odd and capricious are the forms which these optical illusions assume.

Far in the distance, behind the deep gash cut by the river, almost on a level with the horizon line, lay what looked like a long, dark-colored worm with a tuft of cotton on its head.

Manos Duras stopped short to look at it. That was not the day on which the mail train usually came in from Buenos Aires.

“It must be a freight from Bahia Blanca,” he said to himself.

He could make it out quite plainly although it was still many miles away from la Presa, and it had as many miles again to go before it would stop at Fuerte Sarmiento. In this land the power of vision seemed enormously increased; the retina seemed capable here of enclosing a vast extent of territory; here distance seemed to have lost its significance. It meant little compared with the importance it assumed in other parts of the world.

After gazing a few seconds at the slowly moving train miles away, the gaucho started off once more at a gallop. To shorten the way, he was accustomed to ride through the out-lying part of the Rojas ranch stretched between his land and the settlement beyond. With the coolness that was so characteristic of him he turned his horse down a trail that only a practised eye could have discovered between the tough matorral brush.

But don Rojas was also at that hour riding about his property, looking it over and making calculations for the future.

The part of his estate that was on the plateau would never amount to anything, he reflected. That beggared soil could never provide fodder for more than a very limited number of cattle. His herds were “criollos,” as he called them disparagingly; that is to say they were spare, heavy-boned beasts, hard-hoofed, with clumsy horns; in short they were adapted to their rigorous surroundings, and could get along on sparse pasturage; these were the degenerate descendents of the cattle that, centuries before, the Spanish colonists had brought over in their small sailing vessels.

He was thinking regretfully of the prize herds of his father’s estate, of the huge steers, flat backed as your hand, short-horned, the solid flesh fairly bursting through their sleek hides—mountains of beefsteak, as he called them.... Then he began thinking of the miracle that was to be wrought on his lands below when the irrigation ditches brought them the water that was to transform them, releasing their fertility.... Alfalfa would flourish there as in the land of Canaan, and here, along the banks of the Rio Negro he would be able at last to reproduce the marvels of scientific breeding accomplished on the ranches near Buenos Aires; then, instead of thin, hard-hided “criollos” he would have herds of the finest cattle, the product of crossing the best breeds to be found anywhere in the world. With all the delight of an artist in polishing off his creations don Carlos brooded over this transformation that in his mind’s eye he saw taking place on his barren ranch, when suddenly he saw a rider approaching him.

He raised his hand to shade his eyes and could scarcely contain himself when he saw who it was.

“By the.... What? That robber Manos Duras!”

The gaucho as he drew near, raised his hand to his sombrero, in greeting, then spurred his horse ahead.

After a moment of hesitation don Carlos also started off at top speed, cut across the gaucho’s path, and obliged him to stop.

“Who gave you permission to come on my property?” he shouted in a voice that was shrill and shaking with anger.

Manos Duras made no attempt to reply, merely looking at the rancher with the same silent insolence he used towards others. His bold eyes however avoided meeting those of don Carlos. As though offering excuses, he replied in a low tone that he was aware of the fact that he had no right to pass through there without the owner’s permission, but the short-cut eliminated a long and round-about bit of the road to la Presa. Then, as a final explanation he added:

“Besides, don Carlos lets everyone ride through here....”

“Everyone but you,” was the aggressive reply. “If ever I find you again on my land, you’ll get one of these bullets!”

This reply put an end to the gaucho’s assumed meekness. He looked contemptuously at Rojas, and said with slow distinctness,

“You are an old man, that’s why you talk to me like that.”

Don Carlos took his revolver from his belt and pointed it at the gaucho’s breast.

“And you are nothing but a cattle thief.... Why they should all be afraid of you is more than I can understand. But if ever again you steal one of my steers, old man as I am, I’ll make you pay for it!”

As the rancher was still pointing his revolver at him, and as the expression of his face allowed no doubt whatever concerning his determination to carry out his threats, the gaucho did not dare move a hand toward his belt. The slightest motion on his part might call forth a shot.... So he contented himself with giving don Carlos a venomous glance, and saying very low,

“We’ll meet again, boss, and we’ll have more time to talk.”

With this he dug his spurs into his horse and set off at a gallop, without looking back, while don Carlos remained holding his revolver in his right hand.

Near the river however the gaucho had a more agreeable encounter. He noticed three riders coming towards him, and stopped to see who they might be.

The marquesa had felt impelled to accept an invitation to go once more to the works to see the progress of the dam. Things were now at such a pass between Pirovani and the French engineer that she had felt it necessary to her own peace to sooth the latter by accepting his suggestion that she ride out with him. For his part, he felt that he must show her once again that he was after all the directing spirit of the enterprise, and that the contractor, on that ground at least, had to submit himself very often to his commands.

While they were on these excursions the Captain could talk much more freely to Elena than at her house. The fact that the marquÉs was busy with the work of planning the canal system aroused all sorts of hopes and illusions in the captain’s breast. If only the marquesa would consent to riding with him, alone, along the river bank....

But, as though she had divined his thoughts, she insisted that Moreno go with them. Only on that condition would she consent....

“Because you see, you’re dangerous, seÑor Canterac,” said Elena, pretending to be afraid, and at the same time laughing at her pretended fear.

“I’ll go with you only if this friend of ours, who is the father of a family, and a thoroughly serious sort of person, goes along with us.”

Moreno, pleased at having been included, but at the same time somewhat vexed at being described in such terms, rode along behind Elena, who paid not the slightest attention to him. She remembered him only when Canterac became too vehement in his attentions, riding close to her horse and grasping her hand, or attempting other more or less daring gallantries.

“Moreno,” she would manage to say, while the Captain was manoeuvering for place, “ride forward and stay on my left.... I don’t want the Captain so near ... anyway they’re too bold! I don’t like military men!”

All three stopped their attempts at conversation to look intently at Manos Duras who was waiting motionless at the side of the road. Moreno knew who he was and murmured his name to Elena, whose interest in the gaucho was so keen that she yielded to her impulse to speak to him.

“So you are the famous Manos Duras of whom we have heard so often?”

The horseman seemed a little disturbed by Elena’s words, and more so by her smile. He took off his sombrero with a reverential gesture—“as though he were in front of a miracle-working picture,” thought Moreno—Then, in a theatrical manner that was with him quite spontaneous, he replied,

“I am that unhappy man, seÑora, and this present moment is the happiest in my life.”

He looked at her with eyes in which she could plainly read a strange mixture of worship and desire; and she smiled with pleasure at the barbaric homage she was receiving.

Canterac, who thought the conversation ridiculous, indicated his impatience by teasing his horse and protesting every few moments that they ought to be getting on. But Elena did not choose to hear him, and, with smiling interest, continued her conversation with the gaucho.

“They tell dreadful stories about you.... Are they true? How many murders have you really committed?”

“Black calumnies, seÑora!” Manos Duras replied, looking straight into her eyes. “But, if there are any murders I can commit for you, you have only to ask!”

Elena seemed thoroughly pleased by this reply, and said with a look at Canterac,

“How gallant the man is, in his way! You can’t deny that such offers as these are pleasant to hear....”

But the engineer for some reason seemed more and more irritated by the familiarity of this conversation between Elena and the cattle-rustler. Repeatedly he tried to nose his horse between the mounts of the other two, so as to put an end to the dialogue, but each time, with a gesture of impatience, Elena checked him.

Seeing that she was bent on continuing her conversation with Manos Duras he turned to Moreno; he had to express his anger to someone.

“This fellow is too presumptuous! We’ll have to give him a lesson!”

The government employee accepted without reservation the allusion to the gaucho’s presumption, but he merely shrugged at the suggestion of teaching him better. What could they do to this terrible bandit, if even the comisario had to show him a certain respect?

“You ought at least to stop them from buying his meat at the settlement. Boycott him, that’s part of the answer!”

Moreno nodded with alacrity. The suggestion was easy enough to carry out, if that was all that he would be asked to do....

Finally Elena moved on, bidding farewell to the gaucho with a coquetry excited by his emotion and the wolfish desire she saw in his eyes....

“Poor fellow! How interesting to meet him like this.”

And while the three riders went on, Manos Duras still remained motionless by the road. He wanted to look a while longer at that woman. A grave, thoughtful expression had come over his face as though he had a presentiment that this meeting, in some way or other, was to affect his life. But when Elena and her companions passed behind a hillock of sand and disappeared from his range of vision, the gaucho no longer felt the dazzling stimulation of her presence. He smiled cynically to himself while pictures of barbaric lubricity passed through his mind, driving out his doubts and restoring to him his accustomed boldness.

“And why not?” he said to himself. “This is a woman, like those that dance at the boliche ... aren’t they all the same?”

Elena and her escorts went on along the river bank. Suddenly Elena straightened up in her saddle so as to be able to see farther into the distance.

In a meadow edged on the river side with young willows, were two horses, saddled but not hitched. A man and a boy stood at the far end of the meadow practising throwing the rope. The lariat they were using seemed to be a light one, less heavy and rapid in the air than the lassoos of woven leather that the native cow-punchers used.

More by instinct than by strength of sight, Elena recognized the boy. Undoubtedly that was Flor de Rio Negro teaching Watson to throw the rope, and laughing at the gringo’s clumsy attempts to master the whirling, snake-like coils. Richard too, now that Torre Bianca went daily to direct the canal work, was enjoying more liberty, and was using it to follow the Rojas girl about in her rides and share in her childish games.

Indicating to her companions that they were not to follow her, Elena rode towards the meadow.

Celinda however was quicker to notice her than was Watson. With a sudden right-about she turned her back on the intruder, and at the same time ordered Watson to fix one of her spurs, which, so she said, had come loose.

The youth, after kneeling at her feet for a moment, found the spur quite firmly in place, and was about to get up. But she was determined to keep him on his knees.

“I tell you, gringuito, that I’m going to lose it! Please fasten it better!”

And it was only when she saw that Elena, offended, and well aware of the girl’s hostility and strategem, had turned her horse about and was riding away, that she allowed him to get up.

A little before sunset Elena’s party rode up the main street of the town. In front of Pirovani’s house, which she now looked upon as hers, Elena dismounted, leaning on Moreno, who, as she stepped to the ground, had anticipated the Captain’s move to help her.

Offended, the Frenchman saluted with military abruptness, and rode away without waiting until Elena had gone into the house. Another day spoiled! He was furious with the others, and with himself.

Pirovani appeared, issuing from a side-street. As soon as the contractor caught sight of Moreno who was going toward his house, he ran after him, eager to hear about the episodes of an excursion to which he had not been invited. With the easy credulity of the jealous, he believed that Canterac must have won a great advance on him during that short ride with the marquesa.

With childish satisfaction he smiled when the government employee told him how, several times, the seÑora marquesa had asked him to help her keep the Frenchman at a proper distance.

“Of course I know that she can’t stand him,” said the Italian. “I’m not so stupid that I can’t see that! But, as he’s the engineer in charge of the works, and can do favors for Robledo and her husband, she doesn’t dare tell him what she thinks of him....”

But his delight took a sharp fall when Moreno went on to tell him of the encounter with Manos Duras, and the “presumption” with which the fellow had talked to the “seÑora marquesa.”

This was too much for the contractor!

“All these people think they are everybody’s equal just because we are all together here in this desert,” he exclaimed, scandalized. “Some fine day this cattle thief will take it into his head to come to the marquesa’s parties, just as though he were one of us.... It’s outrageous!”

“By the way,” said Moreno, “the Captain doesn’t want any more meat to be bought of Manos Duras, nor any business done with him whatever. That’s more in your hands than Canterac’s.”

Pirovani agreed with vehement signs of assent.

“And I’ll see to it! That Frenchman has the right idea for once. This is the first time in weeks that he’s said anything I could see any sense in!”