PRICKED by her feminine curiosity, Sebastiana impatiently awaited the hour of her mistress’s rendez-vous.

She was in the kitchen, in the corral covered over by a wooden shelter. Several times Sebastiana carried her small lamp over to the table where she kept an alarm clock to discover the hour. A little before ten she took off the old shoes she wore, and in her stocking feet crossed the corral, keeping close under the balcony of the house.

In this fashion, with noiseless step, she reached the corner of the building nearest the window of Elena’s bedroom. Then she sat down on the ground, huddling close to a pillar. In this fashion she could hear without being seen.

In a little while she made out through the darkness the form of Manos Duras approaching the house. She saw him take off his spurs and hide them in his belt, after which he cautiously went up the wooden outside stairway. Shortly after this the window of the seÑora’s bedroom opened and she came out, with a sign to her visitor that he was to make no noise.

Sebastiana strained her ears to hear, but the window was so far away that it was only with the greatest effort of concentration that she could catch a few fragments of phrases. The words that passed between the speakers were uttered in such low tones that she could not be certain that she heard them correctly. It seemed to her that she caught the names “Celinda” and “Flor de Rio Negro”; but she concluded that her sense of hearing must be playing her a trick.

“What has my former little mistress got to do with the schemes of these people?” she asked herself. “You must be imagining things, Sebastiana!”

Thrusting her head out from the shadow of the pillar, she succeeded in seeing both speakers. Manos Duras was nodding approbation of what the seÑora was saying. Then he spoke briefly, emphasizing what he had to say with impressive gestures. At a certain point he tried to seize the marquesa’s hand, but she drew back, with a movement that expressed both repugnance and hauteur. At once he appeared to repent of his impulsiveness, and in a louder tone, and as though making a promise, she said to him,

“We’ll speak of this some other time, when you have fulfilled your part of the contract. You understand what we have agreed upon.”

And she took leave of him with a certain coquetry of manner, although she succeeded in keeping out of his reach.

When he saw that the window had closed upon the seÑora, the gaucho went down the steps. On reaching the street he stopped and looked back.

“Two, instead of one,” Sebastiana thought she heard him say. And as he spoke he looked like a hungry wolf licking his chops.

But still Sebastiana doubted having heard what had actually been said, and she retired to her dingy bed in her hut in the corral, somewhat disappointed by the scanty results of her eaves-dropping.

The only memory of what she had overheard that claimed her attention to the point of keeping her awake, was that of the phrases concerning “Celinda” and “Flor de Rio Negro”; but what possible reason could there be for these two people to talk about her niÑa?

Robledo also spent a bad night. Worn out by his conflicting emotions the marquÉs had finally accepted his friend’s invitation, and his host had put him in the same room that Torre Bianca had occupied when he and his wife arrived at La Presa.

Twice that night Robledo woke up to find that he was straining to hear the sounds coming from the next room. Muttered words and groans came through the thin walls....

“Federico, do you want something?”

In a weak, humble voice came Torre Bianca’s reply. From the comparative silence that followed it seemed that he was making not altogether unsuccessful attempts to be quiet.

A third time Robledo woke, but this time the bars of his window were outlined against the light sky of early morning. A sharp noise had broken into his slumber, making him start up in bed.

When he came out into the living-room, he found Watson leaning down over a chair, fastening on his spurs. It was the noise made by this chair falling over a few moments before which had aroused him. When he saw his young partner, Robledo exclaimed cheerfully, “Up so early?... And you got in pretty late last night too....”

But Watson seemed to be in low spirits; he offered no explanation beyond saying that as there was no work that day, he was going out on a long ride.

When he had gone, Robledo finished dressing, walking up and down in the living room as he did so. Passing by the door of Torre Bianca’s bedroom he felt tempted to open it and go in. He wanted to see his friend. A vague presentiment made him uneasy.

“How had poor Federico spent the night?” he wondered.

He opened the door, and looking in, uttered an exclamation of astonishment. There was no one in the room. The bed, on which the bed-clothes hung tossed about in disorder, was empty. Robledo stood for several minutes trying to think out a solution for the mystery. He concluded that Federico, not being able to sleep, must have gone out to walk as soon as it grew light.

Instinctively he looked scrutinizingly about the room. He noticed some sheets of paper on the table, all of them bearing the beginnings of a letter in Torre Bianca’s handwriting. He had evidently felt it useless to continue any of them.

Robledo picked one of them up. “Thank you for all you have done ... but I can’t go on—” another one began, “The only woman who ever really loved me was my mother, and she is dead. If only I could feel sure of seeing her again—”

Robledo looked at some of the other sheets. They contained nothing but crossed out and unintelligible phrases. Torre Bianca had done his best to write and had finally given it up. Robledo could see his friend in the late hours of the night throwing down his pen ... he had just picked it up off the floor ... and saying with the scorn of one who already considers himself above earthly cares: “What does it matter....”

He stood with the papers in his hand, trying to determine what he had best do. Then it occurred to him that perhaps the marquÉs was wandering about up at the dam. These scrawls of his gave evidence of indecision ... at such a time wouldn’t he be likely to go to the place where he had been happiest in La Presa, to the scene of his work?

He examined the ground outside the house carefully and gave an exclamation of satisfaction at distinguishing among the fresh tracks of Watson’s horse, a man’s foot prints. They must be Torre Bianca’s!

The tracks led down an alley between his house and the neighboring one, and then came out on the open. Once outside the town, he lost the traces of the footprints among the many tracks made by those who had passed in and out of the settlement that morning.

Instinctively he went towards the river, following the bank upward of the current. The surface of the water he watched so intently was not broken by the slightest object. Finally he stopped this search of his that had no guide nor reason other than a presentiment.

“This Federico,” he said to himself, “has upset me with his troubles. Why should I have such absurd fears about him?... Let’s go home.... I feel sure that I’ll find him at the house. He’s probably been taking a walk on the other side of town.”

And with a hurried anxious step he went back to La Presa.

At the very same hour of the day, near the Rojas ranch, Manos Duras, with his three comrades from the mountains, was talking in the shade of some matorrales that grew a little higher than their heads.

They had dismounted and were holding their horses by their bridles. One of them was dressed in different style from his companions, and seemed more like a laborer from a neighboring town than one of the gauchos of the country. To this fellow Manos Duras was giving directions which he accepted in silence, with a few rapid blinks of approval. He then mounted his horse and the other two looked after him until he disappeared behind some matorrales.

“The old dog is going to learn what it costs to give me any of his threats,” growled Manos Duras with a smile full of venom.

One of the mountaineers, whom the others called Piola and who seemed to be older than the rest, and better mannered, shook his head and looked dubious. His comrade’s plan was all right except for Manos Duras’ intention of staying in town a day or two after striking his blow. It would be much better, in his opinion, to retreat together and at once into the mountains.

“Leave the plans alone, brother. I know what I’m doing,” Manos Duras replied. “I want to collect something that will be due me. Perhaps I can get my pay this very night, and if so I’ll overtake you by tomorrow.”

His horse, an excellent animal, would surely be able to make up for the disadvantage of a late start, and would overtake the first party, that was to carry the baggage, before they had covered half the distance to the ranch.

Meanwhile his messenger was galloping toward the Rojas property. At the palisade, he opened the gate, and continued his rapid pace through the estate of don Carlos Rojas.

When he drew near the main building, Cachafaz, made aware of his arrival by the barking of the dogs as they leapt in front of the horse’s hoofs, and snapped at the horseman’s legs, came out to meet him. With sharp cries the boy called off the dogs and then listened with the gravity of a grown man to what the gaucho had to say.

But scarcely was the message delivered when Cachafaz, with shouts of joy, rushed into the ranch house, quite unmindful of the messenger.

Don Carlos was in the parlor having his tenth gourdful of mate that morning. Celinda, in feminine attire, sat in a cane armchair, absorbed apparently by her own melancholy thoughts.

“Master,” cried the little half-breed, bursting in like a small whirlwind, “the comisario has just sent word that you are to go at once to the pueblo. They have caught the thief who stole our heifer!”

Pleased by this news, the rancher followed Cachafaz out of the room, taking with him his calabashful of mate and continuing to sip it through the bombilla as he walked. He wanted to learn some of the details of this capture from the messenger who had come in such hot haste to inform him of it.

But on stepping outside his front door, he was perplexed at discovering that the horseman had disappeared. Cachafaz ran shouting around the buildings and through the various corrals without being able to discover the messenger. Finally, with a shrug, don Rojas concluded that the comisario must have charged some gaucho who was riding through that section of the country to deliver the message as he went by. After all it was good news! The fellow probably had a long journey to make and hadn’t wanted to lose any time. Nor should he lose any either! Thereupon don Carlos mounted his horse to go see the commissioner. He would be back for the midday meal, he told Celinda.

Manos Duras and his three companions, lying flat on the ground, saw the rancher go by in the direction of La Presa. Keeping their faces close to the matorral roots, they laughed cynically as they watched him ride away.

“He’s going after the cow we ate yesterday,” commented Piola.

And Manos Duras added, with characteristic impudence,

“We’ll see what he has to say when we have carried off his little heifer.”

Watson, who was riding in the vicinity of the ranch, eager to approach it, and yet fearful of arousing Celinda’s resentment by his presence, also saw don Rojas pass by, going in the direction of La Presa.

This strengthened his courage. Celinda then was alone at the ranch, and he could invent some pretext for going to see her.... But then he lost heart again.... He couldn’t stand having Cachafaz come out as on the day before and tell him that Celinda would not see him. No, he preferred roaming about over the plains ... and perhaps Celinda, bored by her solitude, would come out and get on her horse....

He felt disposed to wait at least until sundown. As was his habit he carried a few eatables in one of his saddle bags. But for the time being he had quite forgotten that human beings are born with the mortal infirmity of hunger. Other matters seemed far more important to him at the moment.

Meanwhile, his friend Robledo was wandering along the main street of La Presa, head down, absorbed by his reflections. He had just stopped in at his house. Torre Bianca was still not there. His breakfast had waited for him in vain. Where could he be?

He heard someone calling to him from the middle of the street and looked up. The rancher Rojas was talking excitedly to the comisario, who looked amazed, then bewildered. Robledo walked towards them.

“Someone came to my ranch this morning to tell me that the comisario wanted to see me and return the cow that was stolen from me three days ago.... And now don Roque says he never sent any such message, and doesn’t know anything about this business. Did you ever hear the like? Who could the fellow be who brought the message?... I’d like to show him what I think of his joke!”

Robledo listened abstractedly for a few minutes, trying to feign a decent amount of interest. Then he went on his way through the town. For the moment he was entirely pre-occupied with thoughts of his friend. Every time he saw a man in the distance he thought it must be Torre Bianca.

“It’s too bad that Watson went away so early this morning,” he thought. “If he were here he would help me look for Federico.”

But Watson, far away on the desert, torn between his desire to see Celinda and his fear of being harshly dismissed by her, was little by little approaching the ranch as he rode around it in wide circles. When, however, he reached the palisades of the Rojas property, he was again torn by indecision. How was he to explain his presence on the ranch grounds when Flor de Rio Negro had ordered him never to come there again?

But the sight of a gate swinging wide open gave him courage.

“No matter what she may say, I’m going in,” he decided. “I must see her, even though nothing comes of it but her calling me names....”

And he rode slowly forward down the trail leading to the ranch house. Suddenly his horse started and quickened his walk, then stopped abruptly as though about to rear.

Across the path lay the bodies of two dogs, recently killed, it seemed, for their mangled heads lay in two fresh rivulets of blood. A few paces farther on he found a man also stretched across the trail.

He too was dead. Richard recognized him as one of don Carlos’ half-breed peons, although his head was frightfully shattered by the explosion of the bullets at close range. One of the corpse’s eye sockets was completely empty, and through this opening to the skull was oozing some of the brain. The thirsty earth was avidly drinking up the murdered man’s blood.

Watson flung himself down from his horse, and holding his revolver in his right hand, he made his way toward the house. When, on looking through the door opening into the living room he saw no one, he began to call.

The wicker chair in which Celinda usually sat lay overturned on the floor. The cover of the large table had apparently been roughly pulled off and lay on the ground, while the papers and small objects that usually covered it were scattered about under foot.

He continued shouting “Where are you?... It’s me, Watson!” until steps finally became audible in the hall leading to the inner rooms of the ranch house; and finally there appeared in the doorway the wrinkled, copper-colored face of Cachafaz’s mother. Then the other servants, all of them half-breeds, also crept out of their hiding places; but to Watson’s questions they stammered unintelligible replies or else maintained a terrified silence.

Richard came out of the house just in time to see young Cachafaz peer anxiously out from one of the corrals; and no sooner did the others see the boy than they all began giving their account of what had taken place; but the little fellow spoke with a certain authoritative air of knowing what he was about and Watson listened attentively.

He, Cachafaz, had been with his young mistress that morning and had seen everything. Three men had come galloping towards the house full speed. Then the dogs began to bark and just as he stepped out of the house to run and see what was the matter with them, he heard the shots that killed the poor hounds. Then he saw a peon running towards the horsemen, probably to ask them why they were coming into the ranch in that fashion; but before he could say a word they drew their revolvers and shot him down.

“I ran through the house,” continued Cachafaz breathlessly. “The seÑorita was just going out to see what was happening when three men rushed in and threw a poncho over her head; then they picked her up and carried her away.... I was under the table ... but as soon as they had gone I crept out and I saw them get on their horses, carrying my mistress this way in their arms ... so ... under their ponchos. That’s all I know.”

Then the others burst out once more, each eager to tell what he or she had witnessed, though as a matter of fact, none of them had seen much for they had all run to cover as soon as they saw the peon drop dead, and had remained in their hiding places until Watson had arrived. Watson meanwhile, as he tried to get some clear impression from all these divergent accounts of what had actually taken place, thought remorsefully of those moments of indecision when he had been wandering outside the boundary lines of the ranch. If he had only arrived half an hour earlier, if he had only been with Celinda, to defend her, to drive off these kidnappers....

He divined from the look in Cachafaz’s antelope eyes that the boy did, as a matter of fact, know more than he had told, so he led the small half-breed, who was smiling scornfully at the contradictory statements being poured out by the excited servants, into the next room. There Cachafaz, standing on tiptoe, whispered to him,

“It was Manos Duras ... and I know where he took our seÑora!”

Richard fired rapid questions at him, and the boy explained as best he could. No, neither of the three men who had carried away Celinda was Manos Duras. But when Cachafaz left his first hiding place, which was under the table, he had run into a corral nearby where there was a heap of alfalfa drying for the winter feed of the cows. He had crept to the top of it, and from there he could see way, way off into the distance. So he had seen how the three riders met a fourth who was waiting for them outside the ranch gates, and that fourth was undoubtedly Manos Duras. Then all four started off in the same direction riding hard, and carrying Celinda with them swung across one of the saddles, a prisoner....

And from the top of his alfalfa heap he had seen Watson coming, but he had been so scared that he hadn’t come down until he was quite sure that it was the patroncita’s friend and no one else.

Watson could not for several minutes co-ordinate his thoughts. It seemed to him that the first thing he must do was to go find Celinda and free her at once, without a thought for the advantage of numbers on the side of the bandits. He had one ally at least, young Cachafaz, who knew where Celinda was being concealed. That was the important thing; knowing that, everything else should be easy. He’d fight the ruffians and bring Celinda back of course! And with the absurd self-confidence of lovers, who are incapable of perceiving the actual size of the obstacles placed in their way, he mounted his horse and beckoned to Cachafaz to come with him.

With a flying leap, Cachafaz landed on the horse’s cruppers, and clutched Watson’s blouse; then the latter spurred his mount, and they started off at a gallop.

As soon as they had passed through the gate Richard turned his horse in the direction of the Manos Duras’ ranch, which he had often seen from a distance. But Cachafaz exclaimed,

“That’s the wrong direction!” and he pointed to the highest part of the bluffs overhanging the river.

“Go over there,” he whispered, “to the ranch of the Dead Squaw.”

The tumble-down ranch house, known as that of the “Dead Squaw,” had a certain notoriety in the vicinity; it was rarely visited for it was generally reputed to be the usual stopping-place of travellers wanting to cross that part of the country without being seen.

“We’ll find them there,” said Cachafaz, “if they haven’t gone on to some other place.”

At the same hour, on returning to his house after a fruitless search, Robledo experienced a surprise no less disagreeable than fell to Watson’s share when he arrived at the Rojas’ ranch.

On the threshold of the front door sat Sebastiana, apparently waiting for him, to judge from her grunt of satisfaction at sight of him. He too felt relieved to see her, for it flashed through his mind that doubtless Torre Bianca had sent her, with a message explaining his disappearance. Probably the poor weak-willed marquÉs had gone back to his wife and was once more lending his credulity to her lies.

“Did your master send you?... Have you a note from him for me?”

Sebastiana blinked her slant eyes by way of showing her astonishment.

“Master?... El marquÉs? ... I know nothing about him. I thought he was here. No, I came for something quite different.”

She got up heavily, sighing, as she lifted her weight up to a vertical position; then she said, in a hoarse whisper,

“I couldn’t sleep all night, and here I am waiting for you to answer a question for me, don Robledo.”

The engineer listened somewhat ironically, though with admirable patience, to this plea for consultation. But no sooner did the half-breed begin talking, than his expression completely changed, and indicated the closest attention to what she was saying.

The woman finished her account of what she had seen and heard the night before.

“Why did the seÑorona and Manos Duras talk so much about my little mistress?... What has my little white dove to do with them?... As I’m nothing but an old fool who can’t understand anything, I said to myself, ‘I’m going to see don Manuel who knows everything. He can tell me....’”

But Robledo was not listening now. He seemed absorbed. Suddenly he made a gesture as though he had just discovered a terrible truth. Abruptly he turned his back on Sebastiana, and went rapidly back to the place he had just come from.

Then to the half-breed’s astonishment the engineer began running, with increasing speed, as though her words had made him fearful of arriving too late. While he was still a distance away from the other men he began to shout and gesticulate to don Carlos and the comisario who were still talking just where he had left them a few minutes earlier. Uncomprehendingly they looked at one another when they heard him say, pantingly,

“Get on your horses ... at once! That story about the cow was a ruse of Manos Duras to get you away from the ranch! I’m afraid something has happened to Celinda ... we must get out there as soon as possible ... if it isn’t already too late....”

Don Roque, recovering from his momentary stupefaction, rushed to his house to get out his gun and mount his horse. His four policemen, whom he summoned at once, rushed around in an attempt to follow their leader’s moves, but only three of them succeeded in finding mounts and borrowing a few guns from the neighbors. Obviously their sabres would be more useless than ever on this occasion!

Meanwhile Robledo had gone back to his house and while the servant was saddling his horse, he strapped on his revolver holster and a cartridge belt, and sent for all the overseers of the works who lived near by and had guns. In addition he borrowed the Gallego’s American rifle which the proprietor of the boliche kept hidden under his counter.

In addition to carrying on his own preparations, Robledo kept an eye on don Carlos Rojas for fear he might escape. He had obliged Celinda’s father to come back to the house with him, and now he was urging him to be prudent.

“Getting there half an hour sooner isn’t going to change what has already happened. All you’ll do is to let the bandits get you too into their clutches ... if nothing worse. We’ll all go together ... just be patient a few minutes longer!”

But the rancher received these admonitions with grunts of protest, trembling all the while with rage and anxiety. Robledo, standing on guard in his doorway, stepped forward to greet the men he had sent for and explain to them what he wanted of them. The Gallego came up to the group, his American rifle in his hand, and, with a solemnity befitting the handing over of his entire family, entrusted it to Robledo, his fellow countryman.

This offered just the opportunity don Carlos had been waiting for. Jumping into the saddle, he galloped off without paying the slightest attention to the shouts sent after him.

The rescuing party was hastily organized. It consisted of a dozen horsemen, all of them carrying rifles, and under the leadership of Robledo and don Roque they speedily galloped off.

The news meanwhile had spread through the town and a group of women and children gathered to speed the troup of horsemen with shrill shouts. As they passed the house of the unfortunate Pirovani, Robledo could not restrain his uneasy impulse to glance up at the windows.

“This woman has perhaps prepared another tragedy for us,” he thought....

At that instant Watson was dismounting, and with Cachafaz at his heels, was crawling through the tough matorrales. The little half-breed had directed him to a sand hill on the edge of the plateau; and from this elevation he and his small guide could look down almost perpendicularly on the ruins of Dead Squaw ranch.

Watson knew the place by name. Twenty years earlier it had been inhabited by ranchers who sent their cattle out to pasture in the lands adjoining. But the capricious hurricanes of the desert had suddenly spread a thick mantel of sand over these pasture lands; then the waters of the well, which up till then had been relatively fresh, turned brackish, and finally became liquid salt. All the human inhabitants had fled and the adobe buildings soon fell into ruins. Only vagabonds now sought the shelter of the crumbling roof of the abandoned ranch.

As Watson advanced, cat-like, through the thick tough shrub-growths of the sand hill he felt an eerie fear at the stillness of the ranch below. Not a dog barked ... surely Cachafaz must have made a mistake in his deductions, surely that silent ranch was as deserted now as it had ever been! But the little half-breed wriggling ahead of him, stopped between two mattoral trunks and made a sign to Watson that he was to come nearer.

Thrusting his head between the branches Richard made out a sandy elevation twenty yards below in the centre of which was the ranch house. Two horses were nosing along together, nibbling at the sparse grass; and a man with a rifle laid across his knees sat on the ground keeping watch.

Cachafaz murmured into his ear,

“That’s one of the men who carried away the patroncita.”

However much Watson might peer and stretch his neck to see, he could discover no one else below. Making his way backwards from his observatory he slid down to the bottom of the hill and took out a pencil and bit of paper from his pocket. His bright animal-eyes shining as though he already knew what the mission was that he was to be entrusted with, the boy watched Watson write.

Richard gave him the paper and pointed to the place where his horse was tethered.

“Get to the town as fast as you can and give this to the seÑor Robledo, or else to the comisario ... whichever one you meet first.”

And he was about to add further directions but Cachafaz was no longer listening. He was already flying down the hill; then with a jump he sprang on the horse, and was off at a fast gallop.

Once more Watson went up the sand slope to observe what was going on at the ranch. Then he saw two men; first the one he had seen before, who was still sitting on the ground with his rifle on his knees; and another one standing in front of him, carrying no other weapons but the knife and revolver in his belt. This was a gaucho whom he recognized immediately—Manos Duras. The two men were talking, but the distance separating him from them was too great to permit of his catching any words. So it was useless for the moment to continue his observation of the camp; useless also to think of attacking.... Not even with the advantage to be gained by surprising them could he take the risk. Although there were only two men visible, it was reasonable to suppose that inside the ranch house there were several more, perhaps asleep.

“What have they done with Celinda?” thought the youth.

Crawling along between the matorrales he followed the edge of the sand-hill until he reached a place opposite the one from which he had made his first inspection. The two bandits went on talking, without giving evidence of the slightest suspicion that on the edge of the slope near them a man was gliding through the brush, spying on them.

The man facing Manos Duras was the so-called Piola. He was speaking in a tone of vigorous expostulation.

“You know very well that I don’t have any use for this kind of business. I steer clear of any mix-up with women in it. It always ends up wrong and there’s the devil and all hell to pay. It would have been a much better job, as long as you were picking one out, to have rustled a herd in Limay and sold it in the Cordillera ... or why the devil didn’t you pick on some of old man Rojas’ cows that we might have sold for good money instead of making us waste our time here like a lot of kids stealing this little she-calf....”

Manos Duras’ only reply was a gesture indicating that what he chose to do was his business. Piola took up his complaint again.

“It may be that you know what you are doing. And we fellows are sticking to you like brothers. But if you got any coin for kidnapping this girl, the least you could do is to share it with us.”

The gaucho looked at him with scornful anger.

“Money—nothing! Haven’t I told you man, that this is a matter of getting even?... Old Rojas insulted me, and I’m doing the worst thing to him that I can think of ... and anyway, you know what our bargain was.... You are to keep her for me, and as soon as we get into the mountains, it will be your turn....”

Piola showed his fangs in a smile of appreciation at this part of the contract.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll keep her for you ... your turn first ... that is if you catch up with us by tomorrow. But if you’re late, you won’t find her quite as you left her.... But why don’t you start out with us now? What’s up in La Presa tonight that you can’t go along with us?”

“Just a little matter to settle,” said Manos Duras with an insolent smile. “I want to leave all my accounts in order before I go.”

But Piola was far from sharing his comrade’s assurance that the adventure in hand would end successfully. He calculated that perhaps at that very moment what had happened at the Rojas ranch was already known at La Presa. If news of the kidnapping had not yet reached the town, it would be sure to do so before long, for don Carlos would be returning to his ranch after his fruitless trip to see the comisario. Wasn’t Manos Duras afraid, he inquired, that the inhabitants of La Presa would attribute the girl’s disappearance to him?

“Maybe,” replied the gaucho, in a tone of contemptuous indifference. “But they have attributed so many things to me without being able to prove any of them ...! If they see me in town they’ll think that I haven’t had anything to do with this affair. Nobody saw me at the Rojas place. Besides, I shall go to my ranch first in case anyone should come up there to look for me. Then this afternoon I’ll ride into town as usual ... by midnight I’ll have finished my business and be on the way to join you.”

Piola winked his left eye and pointed towards the ranch house.

“What does she say?”

“She thinks we carried her off to get ransom money out of the old man.... She has no idea of what’s in store for her.... Pretty enough, too, and she doesn’t seem to be much scared now that she’s got over her first fright. Pucha! She kept me busy for a while.... Little devil, kicking and biting under the poncho when I put her on the saddle in front of me! I’m keeping her with her hands bound in the house yonder. If I didn’t she’d be fighting to get out, and you’d have to knock her down as though she were a man!”

Manos Duras stood silent, absorbed by his thoughts for a few moments. Then he added with a cynical smile,

“I came out because it was getting pretty difficult to keep my hands off of her ... but the fact is, brother, there’s another one who’s even more to my taste ... and I’m going to see her soon. Just the same this one is a pretty fine specimen, and when a man’s alone with her, the devil begins looking around for his innings ... and as we’re in enemy country, I’ve no business to forget what I’m doing, and lose time.... But I’ll make up for fasting today by feasting tomorrow. Today I have another game to finish. So, just as soon as the others get back, I’ll be off. You’ll go ahead with the she-calf, and I’ll go back to the ranch ... and it’ll be ‘so long’ until tomorrow ... si Dios quiere!”

Watson grew weary of wriggling about through the matorral bushes when he found that there was nothing more to see than the two bandits talking together, and the crumbling ranch-house, its door tight-closed, a few planks of wood carelessly nailed across it. No, there seemed to be no other living being around, and after a while he began to doubt that Celinda’s captors had hidden her in the building opposite him. Perhaps they had carried her off to a place much harder to find, and had left her there under guard of the other two men?

Finally, tired of the uselessness of his observation, he slid down the sand-hill and sat near the spot where Cachafaz had jumped onto his horse. Time passed, but so slowly, it seemed a lifetime that he had been waiting there, helplessly, in the slow torture of anxiety and inactivity.

Something was moving on the horizon.... His eyes, which had for so long scanned the landscape without discovering anything new in it, suddenly grew animated as he made out between the dark patches of the distant matorrales a small rider who grew larger as he steadily galloped towards the sand-hill. In a few minutes Watson recognized him. He had seen the same horse and rider pass by that very morning ... don Carlos Rojas.

Although the rancher was coming straight towards him, Richard thought it prudent to go to meet him, and began running, with all the speed he could make in the soft sand, furrowed by the black roots of the brush from around which the wind had scattered the supporting soil so that his feet kept catching in the exposed root fibres, and his progress was constantly being interrupted by violent stumblings.

As soon as don Carlos caught sight of him, he reined in his horse and pulled his revolver from the holster. Then, recognizing him, the rancher dismounted.

Watson was perplexed. He had sent his message to La Presa. How was it don Carlos had come in response to it ... and alone?

“Where are the others?” asked Watson. “Have you seen Robledo?”

Don Carlos replied evasively. Perhaps Robledo and the comisario would get there soon, but then again they might take hours....

“And I wasn’t going to wait for them,” don Carlos wound up. “Bunch of slow-pokes. No knowing when they’ll get here. I got tired waiting and so I came alone.”

Then he went on to explain that while he was riding as fast as he could towards Manos Duras’s ranch, without stopping to go back to his own, he had seen a rider coming rapidly towards him. He had drawn his revolver in order to stop him, but there was something about the rider’s appearance, that made him determine not to shoot.

“He looked like a monkey on a horse. Cachafaz it was! Then he told me that you were here and showed me your note. I told him to ride ahead and tell the others so that they shouldn’t lose more time going to my place. So he’ll show them the way out here.... But what has happened?”

They walked along among the matorral roots, following the path made by Watson, Rojas leading his horse. He tethered him at the bottom of the sand-hill, and then, on hands and knees, followed Watson up the slope from the top of which they could look down on Dead Squaw ranch.

As they peered through the openings in the bushes they saw Piola still sitting on the ground, just as before, but he was alone. Manos Duras had disappeared.

The fellow was smoking and looking about uneasily, as though instinctively, with the sharp senses of the desert dweller, he had become aware of the hidden enemy. Every now and then he stretched his neck and stared into the distance as though expecting a new arrival.

“Let’s attack!” whispered don Carlos.

It apparently was a small matter to him that the mountaineer held his gun in front of him ready to aim. Rojas and Watson had no arms but their revolvers.

“Don’t forget there’s another one somewhere about,” said Watson.

“Well, what of it?... That makes two, and there are two of us. Let’s go for them. I want to take a crack at that fellow!”

And he pulled out his revolver, apparently with the idea of firing from where he was, without taking any account of the distance the bullet would have to travel. Watson checked him, laying a hand on his arm, and whispering in his ear,

“There are two other men that I haven’t located yet. We’d better wait for Robledo and the rest.”

They waited in a state of painful indecision, fluctuating between the determination to wait prudently and the impulse to try their luck and attack without knowing the exact number of the enemy to be reckoned with.

But it was not long before Watson discovered the whereabouts of Manos Duras’s other companions. Suddenly the silence was broken by the furious barking of dogs in the distance. Piola stood up with a shout. Manos Duras came out of the ranch house and went around the corner of the adobe building, remaining in full sight of the two men spying upon him from among the matorral bushes.

Two other mountaineers were arriving. After the morning’s work, they had gone to Manos Duras’s ranch to get the troop of horses that were to accompany them on their journey into the mountains, carrying the food and the other supplies necessary for so long an expedition, and the dogs of the ranch had come along with the party.

In a few minutes the two new arrivals, armed with rifles and bringing six horses loaded with sacks and roped bundles, reached the sandy elevation. The dogs, after leaping about among the decaying buildings, joyfully greeting the master they could not see, began to bark uneasily and nose anxiously about. Then they broke into shrill fierce howls. Their mouths dripping, their backs bristling, they tried to spring up the sand slope, sliding back and running to the gauchos to warn them of the hidden enemy.

Instead of trying to quiet the dogs, the two horsemen looked up threateningly at the matorrales of the sandy elevation.

“They’ve spotted us,” muttered Rojas. “All the better. We’ll get through this business right away!”

Watson followed him down the side of the hill. There was nothing to do now but break cover. They came out at the point where the horse was tethered; don Carlos mounted him and felt of his revolver to see if it came out of the holster easily. Keeping close to the horse Watson moved forward with Rojas, and in this fashion they advanced quite openly towards the ranch-house.

When, preceded by the three dogs who, as they retreated, showed their fangs and barked furiously, they reached the open space in front of the building, they found themselves face to face with the two mountaineers still on their horses, and Piola, with his rifle in position, ready to fire. Don Carlos addressed him as though he were the leader of the band.

“Where is my daughter?” he demanded.

Imperturbably the gaucho listened to him, as though not understanding a word.

“There’s no need of useless talk,” Rojas continued, “If it’s money you want, out with it, and perhaps we can come to an understanding.”

Piola remained silent. Meanwhile, in response to an almost imperceptible signal from him, the other two gauchos removed themselves to a distance of a few yards, where they stood scanning the horizon line. One of them rode back, dismounted, and began talking very low to Piola. There was no one to be seen on the plain.

But the dogs continued barking, moving uneasily from one side of the group to the other. It seemed that their agitation must be a remnant of their previous excitement. The two riders had unquestionably arrived alone.

Rojas continued his attempts to strike a bargain, at the same time making extraordinary efforts to control his indignation.

“But I don’t know what you’re talking about, seÑor,” Piola replied finally. “You’re on the wrong track. I never saw the young woman.”

“Aren’t you people friends of Manos Duras?”

While this was going on Watson moved away from the speakers with the intention of getting around the ranch-house to the front door. But the other mountaineer, guessing his intention, stepped in front of him, taking aim at him, on the point of shooting. Finally without having committed himself to any definite reply, Piola turned his back to Rojas and walked away, disappearing behind the corner of the building.

The rancher attempted to follow him and brought up short against the man who checked Watson. His rifle in position, he kept it pointed at both men, and they were constrained to stand motionless while they inwardly debated the question as to whether to yield to the menace of the gun muzzle, or throw themselves upon the bandit.

With a blow, Piola knocked down the poorly joined planks with which the door was patched, and came upon Manos Duras just at the moment when the latter had reached the conclusion that his struggles with Celinda were going to cost him too many scratches. The girl, in spite of the fact that her hands were still bound, was defending herself with the ferocity of a small tiger against the gaucho’s attacks. She had torn his flesh with her nails, bitten and kicked him. His face in several places dripped blood, but such was his state of excitement that he was unaware of more than a few of his wounds.

At sight of his comrade he tried to regain something of his customary composure, and addressed him with fierce joviality.

“What did I tell you, brother? A fellow begins by playing and before he knows it he loses his head, with a girl like that....”

But he became silent when he saw how Piola was looking at him.

“So, you’re playing in here like a green school boy! It doesn’t matter to you what happens outside, does it?”

He motioned his leader towards the door, and once on the other side of the threshold, he went on in a low tone,

“Old man Rojas is here with one of the gringos from the dam. What are we going to do?”

Manos Duras, in spite of his customary cynicism, was taken aback at the news that only a few crumbling adobe walls separated him from Celinda’s father. How had he arrived there so soon? Who could have revealed to him the whereabouts of his kidnapped daughter? Then his native ferocity, pricked by the memory of the insult done him, awoke to provide him with a solution to the problem confronting him.

“Why not kill him?”

“And the gringo too?” inquired Piola ironically. “You have an answer to everything!”

The gaucho from the Andes moved uneasily as though instinctively he felt the proximity of danger. He could not believe that those two men had come alone. Others must be close at hand to lend them help. The best thing for Manos Duras to do in this situation was to mount his swift horse without further loss of time, and start off with his prize on the saddle in front of him for that part of the banks of the Limay where he was to meet the rest of the expedition. Certainly he ought to give up the idea of keeping any engagement in La Presa that night. Prudence demanded a change of plans. While he was riding for safety with the girl, he, Piola, and his men, would remain to distract the attention of the pursuers. He could spend several hours convincing the old man that his suspicions were ill-founded. And if other pursuers arrived from the town they too would be convinced, on finding that the gauchos had no woman in their possession, and discovering no evidence of Manos Duras having been at Dead Squaw ranch, that his comrades were merely peaceable travellers using the ranch as a camping ground.

Manos Duras listened impatiently. No; he had taken a fancy to the adventure just as it was and would not change any detail of the plan he had made. He wanted to keep Celinda, well and good, but he would not give up his visit to La Presa, where, as soon as it grew dark, he was going to present himself on his mysterious errand.

“Well, there’s another way out still,” persisted Piola. “The old fellow is offering money for the girl....”

But he got no farther. Close at hand, on the other side of the wall, a shot rang out, and then a cry. Manos Duras’s trusted comrade uttered an oath.

“There! The party’s begun!” he exclaimed, raising the trigger of his gun, and running towards the spot from which the sound had apparently come.

What had happened was that while the man who checked their advance kept his gun aimed at Watson, who because of his youth seemed the more dangerous of the two, Rojas had cautiously removed his revolver from the holster and fired.

The man on guard fell over on his face, and Watson at once grasped his rifle.

At the moment when Piola came around the turn of the building, Rojas had already mounted his horse, for like many of his forefathers, he felt more secure on his mount than he could ever feel standing on solid ground. Watson, who had been wrestling with the wounded man for possession of the rifle, at that moment wrested it from him, and was raising it to his shoulder; but when he found that the mountaineer was aiming at him, the American stooped with a quick instinctive motion, and the bullet, which would otherwise have hit him square in the chest, merely grazed his left shoulder. But the smarting pain caused by the whizzing projectile made him drop the rifle he had seized, and raise his right hand to his wounded shoulder.

Piola stepped towards him to make sure of his second shot; and at this point in the duel Manos Duras thrust his head out of the shelter of the corner wall.

What he noticed first was that Rojas was taking aim with his revolver at Piola. Manos Duras with his own revolver took aim at the rancher; but he could not draw the trigger. The other mountaineer who had been scouting on the opposite side of the ranch came between him and his target.

“There’s a whole bunch of them coming,” he yelled.

The dogs were following him, making violent leaps in the direction of the invisible enemy and back again.

And now events followed one another in such rapid succession that all that happened seemed to crowd with fantastic velocity on the heels of what was already occurring....

Manos Duras was the first to spring into action. With a rush he mounted his horse, nibbling at patches of coarse grass, as undisturbed by the shots fired as though he heard such detonations every day; and together, horse and cattle thief disappeared behind the ranch house.

Piola turned from Watson to consider his own safety. He too felt safer on horseback; keeping his rifle in his left hand, he jumped on his mount with the remaining gaucho, and went to keep guard over the troop of pack horses who represented the entire fortune of the band.

Rojas, apparently forgetting all possibility of danger to himself, rode towards Watson.

“What have they done to you, gringuito?” he asked with genuine emotion. “Have they killed you?”

“Nothing ... a scratch ... that’s all.”

Don Carlos had no time for more. It was imperative that he discover what there was on the hidden side of the ranch house. He pushed his horse forward, and passed the screening angle of the building.

No one. The door of the ramshackle building stood wide open. Through the gaping aperture he could see the interior of the house. There was no one there. But as he looked up from this disappointing scene, he caught sight of a rider disappearing at a fast gallop in the direction of the mountains; and this rider bore in front of him on the saddle a large bundle which he held with both arms; and in spite of the rapidly widening distance, Celinda’s father could see that the bundle was struggling frantically.

“Ah, you criminal, you horse thief!”

He had had no worse fears. And while he stood, motionless for the moment with despair, it seemed to him that he could still hear his little daughter crying out to him for help....