When, preceded by the three dogs who, as they retreated, showed their fangs and barked furiously, they reached the open space in front of the building, they found themselves face to face with the two mountaineers still on their horses, and Piola, with his rifle in position, ready to fire. Don Carlos addressed him as though he were the leader of the band.
“Where is my daughter?” he demanded.
Imperturbably the gaucho listened to him, as though not understanding a word.
“There’s no need of useless talk,” Rojas continued, “If it’s money you want, out with it, and perhaps we can come to an understanding.”
Piola remained silent. Meanwhile, in response to an almost imperceptible signal from him, the other two gauchos removed themselves to a distance of a few yards, where they stood scanning the horizon line. One of them rode back, dismounted, and began talking very low to Piola. There was no one to be seen on the plain.
But the dogs continued barking, moving uneasily from one side of the group to the other. It seemed that their agitation must be a remnant of their previous excitement. The two riders had unquestionably arrived alone.
Rojas continued his attempts to strike a bargain, at the same time making extraordinary efforts to control his indignation.
“But I don’t know what you’re talking about, señor,” Piola replied finally. “You’re on the wrong track. I never saw the young woman.”
“Aren’t you people friends of Manos Duras?”
While this was going on Watson moved away from the speakers with the intention of getting around the ranch-house to the front door. But the other mountaineer, guessing his intention, stepped in front of him, taking aim at him, on the point of shooting. Finally without having committed himself to any definite reply, Piola turned his back to Rojas and walked away, disappearing behind the corner of the building.