Francisco's eyes followed the end of the silver riding whip that his uncle used to point with, and saw tier after tier of poles, from which were stretched horsehides to stakes in the ground below.
Turning to Don Carlos, the mayor domo, who was near-by, the Colonel inquired the worth of the horses being branded.
"Not less than ten or twelve dollars each," answered the superintendent. "These are very good ones. Does the Señor care to have his breakfast now?"
For some time, Francisco had been feeling pangs of hunger. His hurried café had not been sufficient nourishment for the long hot ride, and now his hunger was aroused by odours that came to his nostrils like pleasant messengers; yet, he could not see anything cooking.
"Uncle, shall we eat out here with the gauchos?" he asked, wild-eyed.
"Very near them anyhow, but not exactly with them. Manuel came ahead of us to prepare our almuerzo, which is in process of cooking over yonder behind that clump of willows. Before we eat you shall see the gauchos eat, but I warn you it is not a prepossessing sight.
"Here, Don Carlos, have the men go to their breakfast now, the lad wants to see their table manners."
Don Carlos rode into the corral, spoke a few words and the branding ceased. Each man mounted his own pony, for an Argentine cowboy never walks, be his journey ever so short. With cheers and shouts they galloped toward the mud huts near-by.
Francisco and the Colonel followed at a more dignified pace. They found the men gathered about in groups, squatting on the ground or sitting on ox skulls.
The beef had been quartered and roasted on a spit over a charcoal fire, outside one of the huts. Each man, without ceremony, had "fallen to" and helped himself, by cutting great chunks of the meat from the large piece on the fire.