However much Watson might peer and stretch his neck to see, he could discover no one else below. Making his way backwards from his observatory he slid down to the bottom of the hill and took out a pencil and bit of paper from his pocket. His bright animal-eyes shining as though he already knew what the mission was that he was to be entrusted with, the boy watched Watson write.
Richard gave him the paper and pointed to the place where his horse was tethered.
“Get to the town as fast as you can and give this to the señor Robledo, or else to the comisario ... whichever one you meet first.”
And he was about to add further directions but Cachafaz was no longer listening. He was already flying down the hill; then with a jump he sprang on the horse, and was off at a fast gallop.
Once more Watson went up the sand slope to observe what was going on at the ranch. Then he saw two men; first the one he had seen before, who was still sitting on the ground with his rifle on his knees; and another one standing in front of him, carrying no other weapons but the knife and revolver in his belt. This was a gaucho whom he recognized immediately—Manos Duras. The two men were talking, but the distance separating him from them was too great to permit of his catching any words. So it was useless for the moment to continue his observation of the camp; useless also to think of attacking.... Not even with the advantage to be gained by surprising them could he take the risk. Although there were only two men visible, it was reasonable to suppose that inside the ranch house there were several more, perhaps asleep.
“What have they done with Celinda?” thought the youth.
Crawling along between the matorrales he followed the edge of the sand-hill until he reached a place opposite the one from which he had made his first inspection. The two bandits went on talking, without giving evidence of the slightest suspicion that on the edge of the slope near them a man was gliding through the brush, spying on them.
The man facing Manos Duras was the so-called Piola. He was speaking in a tone of vigorous expostulation.
“You know very well that I don’t have any use for this kind of business. I steer clear of any mix-up with women in it. It always ends up wrong and there’s the devil and all hell to pay. It would have been a much better job, as long as you were picking one out, to have rustled a herd in Limay and sold it in the Cordillera ... or why the devil didn’t you pick on some of old man Rojas’ cows that we might have sold for good money instead of making us waste our time here like a lot of kids stealing this little she-calf....”
Manos Duras’ only reply was a gesture indicating that what he chose to do was his business. Piola took up his complaint again.