Having neighed in recognition of the other horses, my good nag stood as still as a statue; while, with my eyes upon the men and my hand within easy distance of my revolver, I listened to their music. One sang while the other played, and I must confess that the song had a certain fascination about it, and only the thought that I was far from safe prevented me from thoroughly enjoying it. I knew, as if by instinct, however, that the very fingers that were eliciting those sweet sad tones were itching to clutch my throat, and that the voice that thrilled my senses could in a moment be changed into a tiger yell, with which men like these spring upon their human prey.
On the whole I felt relieved when the rumble of the 120 waggon wheels fell once more on my ears. I rode back to meet my people, and presently a halt was made for the midday feed.
If aunt desired to feast her eyes on the Gaucho malo she had now a chance. They played to her, sang to her, and went through a kind of wild dance for her especial delectation.
'What romantic and beautiful blackguards they are!' was the remark she made to Moncrieff.
Moncrieff smiled, somewhat grimly, I thought.
'It's no' for nought the cland[4] whistles,' he said in his broadest, canniest accents.
These Gauchos were hunting, they told Moncrieff. Had they seen any Indians about? No, no, not an Indian. The Indians were far, far south.
Aunt gave them some garments, food, and money; and, with many bows and salaams, they mounted their steeds and went off like the wind.
I noticed that throughout the remainder of the day Moncrieff was unusually silent, and appeared to wish to be alone. Towards evening he beckoned to me.
'We'll ride on ahead,' he said, 'and look for a good bit of camping-ground.'