“Esta bueno.”
Then follows an interval of silence; after which Gaspar, as if some new thought had occurred to him, suddenly exclaims—
“Santos Dios! I’d forgotten that.”
“Forgotten what?” both inquire, with a surprised, but not apprehensive look; for the gaucho’s words were not in this tone.
“Something,” he answers, “which we ought to find at this very crossing-place. A bit of good luck it’s being here.”
“And what do you expect from it?” questions Cypriano.
“I expect to learn whether we’re still on the right track, or have strayed away from it. We’ve been going by guesswork long enough; but, if I don’t greatly mistake we’ll there see something to tell us whether our guesses have been good or bad. If the redskins have come up the river at all, it’s pretty sure they also have crossed the riacho at this very ford, and we should there see some traces of them. Sure to find them on the sloping banks, as we did by the arroyo. That will count a score in our favour.”
By the time he has ceased speaking, they have reached the quebracha; and, soon as under its shadow, Gaspar again reins up, telling the others to do the same. It is not that he has any business with the beacon tree, as with that which served them for a barometer; but simply, because they are once more within sight of the stream—out of view since they left its bank below. The ford is also before their eyes, visible over the tops of some low bordering bushes.
But what has now brought the gaucho to a stop is neither the stream, nor its crossing-place; but a flock of large birds wading about in the water, at the point where he knows the ford to be. Long-legged creatures they are, standing as on stilts, and full five feet high, snow-white in colour, all but their huge beaks, which are jet black, with a band of naked skin around their necks, and a sort of pouch like a pelican’s, this being of a bright scarlet. For they are garzones soldados, or “soldier-cranes,” so-called from their red throats bearing a fancied resemblance to the facings on the collar of a soldier’s coat, in the uniform of the Argentine States.
“Bueno!” is the pleased exclamation which proceeds from the gaucho’s lips, as he sits contemplating the cranes. “We sha’n’t have any swimming to do here; the rain don’t seem to have deepened the ford so much as a single inch. You see those long-legged gentry; it barely wets their feet. So much the better, since it ensures us against getting our own wetted, with our baggage to the boot. Stay!” he adds, speaking as if from some sudden resolve, “let’s watch the birds a bit. I’ve a reason.”