In their saddles, and gazing over it before setting out, Gaspar says—
“Hijos mios; we can’t do better than head due westward. That will bring us out of the salitral, somewhere. Luckily there’s a sun in the sky to hold us to a straight course. If we hadn’t that for a guide, we might go zig-zagging all about, and be obliged to spend a night amidst the saltpetre; perhaps three or four of them. To do so would be to risk our lives; possibly lose them. The thirst of itself would kill us, for there’s never drinkable water in a salitral. However, with the sun behind our backs, and we’ll take care to keep it so, there won’t be much danger of our getting bewildered. We must make haste, though. Once it mounts above our heads, I defy Old Nick himself to tell east from west. So let’s put on the best speed we can take out of the legs of our animals.”
With this admonition, and a word to his horse, the gaucho goes off at a gallop; the others starting simultaneously at the same pace, and all three riding side by side. For on the smooth, open surface of the salitral there is no need for travelling single file. Over it a thousand horsemen—or ten thousand for that matter—might march abreast, with wide spaces between.
Proceeding onward, they leave behind them three distinct traces of a somewhat rare and original kind—the reverse of what would be made by travellers passing over ground thinly covered with snow, where the trail would be darker than the surrounding surface. Theirs, on the contrary, is lighter coloured—in point of fact, quite white, from the saltpetre tossed to the top by the hooves of their galloping horses.
The gaucho every now and then casts a glance over his shoulder, to assure himself of the sun’s disc being true behind their backs; and in this manner they press on, still keeping up the pace at which they had started.
They have made something more than ten miles from the point where they entered upon the salitral; and Gaspar begins to look inquiringly ahead, in the hope of sighting a tree, ridge, rock, or other land-mark to tell where the travesia terminates. His attention thus occupied, he for awhile forgets what has hitherto been engaging it—the position of the sun.
And when next he turns to observe the great luminary, it is only to see that it is no longer there—at least no longer visible. A mass of dark cloud has drifted across its disc, completely obscuring it. In fact, it was the sudden darkening of the sky, and, as a consequence, the shadow coming over the plain before his face, which prompted him to turn round—recalling the necessity of caution as to their course.
“Santos Dios!” he cries out, his own brow becoming shadowed as the sky; “our luck has left us, and—”
“And what?” asks Cypriano, seeing that the gaucho hesitates, as if reluctant to say why fortune has so suddenly forsaken them. “There’s a cloud come over the sun; has that anything to do with it?”
“Everything, señorito. If that cloud don’t pass off again, we’re as good as lost. And,” he adds, with eyes still turned to the east, his glance showing him to feel the gravest apprehension, “I am pretty sure it won’t pass off—for the rest of this day at all events. Mira! It’s moving along the horizon—still rising up and spreading out!”