“She thinks we carried her off to get ransom money out of the old man.... She has no idea of what’s in store for her.... Pretty enough, too, and she doesn’t seem to be much scared now that she’s got over her first fright. Pucha! She kept me busy for a while.... Little devil, kicking and biting under the poncho when I put her on the saddle in front of me! I’m keeping her with her hands bound in the house yonder. If I didn’t she’d be fighting to get out, and you’d have to knock her down as though she were a man!”
Manos Duras stood silent, absorbed by his thoughts for a few moments. Then he added with a cynical smile,
“I came out because it was getting pretty difficult to keep my hands off of her ... but the fact is, brother, there’s another one who’s even more to my taste ... and I’m going to see her soon. Just the same this one is a pretty fine specimen, and when a man’s alone with her, the devil begins looking around for his innings ... and as we’re in enemy country, I’ve no business to forget what I’m doing, and lose time.... But I’ll make up for fasting today by feasting tomorrow. Today I have another game to finish. So, just as soon as the others get back, I’ll be off. You’ll go ahead with the she-calf, and I’ll go back to the ranch ... and it’ll be ‘so long’ until tomorrow ... si Dios quiere!”
Watson grew weary of wriggling about through the matorral bushes when he found that there was nothing more to see than the two bandits talking together, and the crumbling ranch-house, its door tight-closed, a few planks of wood carelessly nailed across it. No, there seemed to be no other living being around, and after a while he began to doubt that Celinda’s captors had hidden her in the building opposite him. Perhaps they had carried her off to a place much harder to find, and had left her there under guard of the other two men?
Finally, tired of the uselessness of his observation, he slid down the sand-hill and sat near the spot where Cachafaz had jumped onto his horse. Time passed, but so slowly, it seemed a lifetime that he had been waiting there, helplessly, in the slow torture of anxiety and inactivity.
Something was moving on the horizon.... His eyes, which had for so long scanned the landscape without discovering anything new in it, suddenly grew animated as he made out between the dark patches of the distant matorrales a small rider who grew larger as he steadily galloped towards the sand-hill. In a few minutes Watson recognized him. He had seen the same horse and rider pass by that very morning ... don Carlos Rojas.
Although the rancher was coming straight towards him, Richard thought it prudent to go to meet him, and began running, with all the speed he could make in the soft sand, furrowed by the black roots of the brush from around which the wind had scattered the supporting soil so that his feet kept catching in the exposed root fibres, and his progress was constantly being interrupted by violent stumblings.
As soon as don Carlos caught sight of him, he reined in his horse and pulled his revolver from the holster. Then, recognizing him, the rancher dismounted.
Watson was perplexed. He had sent his message to La Presa. How was it don Carlos had come in response to it ... and alone?
“Where are the others?” asked Watson. “Have you seen Robledo?”