Far in the distance, behind the deep gash cut by the river, almost on a level with the horizon line, lay what looked like a long, dark-colored worm with a tuft of cotton on its head.
Manos Duras stopped short to look at it. That was not the day on which the mail train usually came in from Buenos Aires.
“It must be a freight from Bahia Blanca,” he said to himself.
He could make it out quite plainly although it was still many miles away from la Presa, and it had as many miles again to go before it would stop at Fuerte Sarmiento. In this land the power of vision seemed enormously increased; the retina seemed capable here of enclosing a vast extent of territory; here distance seemed to have lost its significance. It meant little compared with the importance it assumed in other parts of the world.
After gazing a few seconds at the slowly moving train miles away, the gaucho started off once more at a gallop. To shorten the way, he was accustomed to ride through the out-lying part of the Rojas ranch stretched between his land and the settlement beyond. With the coolness that was so characteristic of him he turned his horse down a trail that only a practised eye could have discovered between the tough matorral brush.
But don Rojas was also at that hour riding about his property, looking it over and making calculations for the future.
The part of his estate that was on the plateau would never amount to anything, he reflected. That beggared soil could never provide fodder for more than a very limited number of cattle. His herds were “criollos,” as he called them disparagingly; that is to say they were spare, heavy-boned beasts, hard-hoofed, with clumsy horns; in short they were adapted to their rigorous surroundings, and could get along on sparse pasturage; these were the degenerate descendents of the cattle that, centuries before, the Spanish colonists had brought over in their small sailing vessels.
He was thinking regretfully of the prize herds of his father’s estate, of the huge steers, flat backed as your hand, short-horned, the solid flesh fairly bursting through their sleek hides—mountains of beefsteak, as he called them.... Then he began thinking of the miracle that was to be wrought on his lands below when the irrigation ditches brought them the water that was to transform them, releasing their fertility.... Alfalfa would flourish there as in the land of Canaan, and here, along the banks of the Rio Negro he would be able at last to reproduce the marvels of scientific breeding accomplished on the ranches near Buenos Aires; then, instead of thin, hard-hided “criollos” he would have herds of the finest cattle, the product of crossing the best breeds to be found anywhere in the world. With all the delight of an artist in polishing off his creations don Carlos brooded over this transformation that in his mind’s eye he saw taking place on his barren ranch, when suddenly he saw a rider approaching him.
He raised his hand to shade his eyes and could scarcely contain himself when he saw who it was.
“By the.... What? That robber Manos Duras!”