Then away we both went at a canter, but in silence.
We rode on and on, the ground rising gently but steadily, until we stopped at last on a high plateau, and gazed around us at the scene. A more bleak and desolate country it would be impossible to imagine. One vast and semi-desert plain, the eye relieved only by patches of algarrobo bushes, or little lakes of water. Far ahead of us the cone of a solitary mountain rose on the horizon, and towards this the sun was slowly declining. Away miles in our rear were the waggons and horses struggling up the hill. But silence as deep as death was everywhere. Moncrieff stretched his arm southwards.
'What do you see yonder, Murdo?' he said.
'I see,' I replied, after carefully scanning the rolling plain, 'two ostriches hurrying over the pampas.'
'Those are not ostriches, boy. They are those same villain Gauchos, and they are after no good. I tell you this, that you may be prepared for anything that may happen to-night. But look,' he added, turning his horse's head; 'down here is a corral, and we are sure to find water.'
We soon reached it. Somewhat to our surprise we found no horses anywhere about, and no sign of life around the little inn or fonda except one wretched-looking dog.
As we drew up at the door and listened the stillness felt oppressive. Moncrieff shouted. No human voice responded; but the dog, seated on his haunches, gave vent to a melancholy howl.
'Look,' I said, 'the dog's paws are red with blood. He is wounded.'
'It isn't his blood, boy.'