The notorious Manos Duras lived on an elevation of the _mesa_ from which
he could see the distant limits of Patagonia on the far horizon, and
below, the wide, twisting curves of the river, beyond which stretched
one end of the Rojas ranch.
His ranch-house, of adobe, was surrounded by other huts, or hovels, and
a few corrals fenced in by old stockades, but only on rare occasions was
any cattle to be found in them.
Everyone in the country knew where the ranch of Manos Duras was located;
but very few ever cared to visit it, for the region had a bad name.
Sometimes those who with a certain trepidation passed near by, felt
reassured when they saw how solitary the place was. On the road leading
up to the ranch house there were none of those barking and leaping
long-haired dogs with blood-shot eyes and pointed ears who usually
accompany the cowboy. Nor were any horses to be seen nibbling at the
sparse grass in the corrals.
Manos Duras was away. Possibly he was roving up and down the banks of
the Colorado where cattle were more abundant than along the Rio Negro.
Or possibly he was roaming among the spurs of the Andes, going to pay a
visit to his friends in the Bolson valley, settled for the most part by
Chilian adventurers, or on his way to make a call on his acquaintances
along the shores of the Andene lakes. These excursions of his to the
mountains were usually undertaken for the purpose of disposing, in
Chile, of the cattle he had “rustled” in the Argentine.
But at other times the Manos Duras ranch contained an extraordinary
diversity of inhabitants. Wandering _gauchos_ like himself took up their
quarters in the adobe huts for weeks at a time without anyone’s ever
discovering for a certainty where they came from nor where they were
going.
The _comisario_ of La Presa was beginning to feel uneasy about these
mysterious visitors. He got little rest, for not a night went by that he
did not fear that some scandalous depradation might occur. Yet day after
day passed, and nothing happened to ruffle the calm of the settlement
and its outskirts. At the _gaucho’s_ ranch numerous heads of cattles
were sold and skinned, and Manos Duras provided the whole region with
meat. But, as no complaints of theft reached him, don Roque refrained
from any investigation as to the source of the bandit’s flocks and
herds.
Then one fine morning the _gaucho’s_ companions disappeared, and Manos
Duras continued living in solitude on his ranch; at last he too
disappeared for a while, to the _comisario’s_ infinite relief.
Suddenly he reappeared again, with three companions, evil-looking
specimens out of whom no one could get a word. At the Galician’s it was
asserted that they came from a distant valley of the mountain chain.
“They’re three good fellows who are out of luck,” said the _gaucho_.
“Three pals of mine who are going to live up at the ranch until the
white-livered rotters down yonder get through telling lies about them.”
One day of intense heat, Manos Duras sprang on his horse to go up to La
Presa to make some purchases.
The Patagonian summer had begun with the violent ardor it displays in
lands rarely cooled by rain, but where the winter temperatures go down
to many degrees below zero. The parching soil seemed to tremble under
the intensity of the sun’s hot brilliance. So strong was the radiation
that straight lines took on a wave-motion in the dazzling glare, and the
outlines of the mountains, the buildings and the people in the streets
became oddly changed. These tricks of the blinding light doubled or even
tripled the objects in the scene, giving the impression that this desert
land was a region of lakes, where everything was reflected in a series
of glittering surfaces. The mirages of the desert, these, which attract
the attention of even the sons of the soil, so odd and capricious are
the forms which these optical illusions assume.
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!”
The _gaucho_ as he drew near, raised his hand to his sombrero, in
greeting, then spurred his horse ahead.
After a moment of hesitation don Carlos also started off at top speed,
cut across the _gaucho’s_ path, and obliged him to stop.
“Who gave you permission to come on my property?” he shouted in a voice
that was shrill and shaking with anger.
Manos Duras made no attempt to reply, merely looking at the rancher with
the same silent insolence he used towards others. His bold eyes however
avoided meeting those of don Carlos. As though offering excuses, he
replied in a low tone that he was aware of the fact that he had no right
to pass through there without the owner’s permission, but the short-cut
eliminated a long and round-about bit of the road to la Presa. Then, as
a final explanation he added:
“Besides, don Carlos lets everyone ride through here....”
“Everyone but you,” was the aggressive reply. “If ever I find you again
on my land, you’ll get one of these bullets!”
This reply put an end to the _gaucho’s_ assumed meekness. He looked
contemptuously at Rojas, and said with slow distinctness,
“You are an old man, that’s why you talk to me like that.”
Don Carlos took his revolver from his belt and pointed it at the
_gaucho’s_ breast.
“And you are nothing but a cattle thief.... Why they should all be
afraid of you is more than I can understand. But if ever again you steal
one of my steers, old man as I am, I’ll make you pay for it!”
As the rancher was still pointing his revolver at him, and as the
expression of his face allowed no doubt whatever concerning his
determination to carry out his threats, the _gaucho_ did not dare move a
hand toward his belt. The slightest motion on his part might call forth
a shot.... So he contented himself with giving don Carlos a venomous
glance, and saying very low,
“We’ll meet again, boss, and we’ll have more time to talk.”
With this he dug his spurs into his horse and set off at a gallop,
without looking back, while don Carlos remained holding his revolver in
his right hand.
Near the river however the _gaucho_ had a more agreeable encounter. He
noticed three riders coming towards him, and stopped to see who they
might be.
The _marquesa_ had felt impelled to accept an invitation to go once more
to the works to see the progress of the dam. Things were now at such a
pass between Pirovani and the French engineer that she had felt it
necessary to her own peace to sooth the latter by accepting his
suggestion that she ride out with him. For his part, he felt that he
must show her once again that he was after all the directing spirit of
the enterprise, and that the contractor, on that ground at least, had to
submit himself very often to his commands.
While they were on these excursions the Captain could talk much more
freely to Elena than at her house. The fact that the _marqués_ was busy
with the work of planning the canal system aroused all sorts of hopes
and illusions in the captain’s breast. If only the _marquesa_ would
consent to riding with him, alone, along the river bank....
But, as though she had divined his thoughts, she insisted that Moreno go
with them. Only on that condition would she consent....
“Because you see, you’re dangerous, _señor_ Canterac,” said Elena,
pretending to be afraid, and at the same time laughing at her pretended
fear.
“I’ll go with you only if this friend of ours, who is the father of a
family, and a thoroughly serious sort of person, goes along with us.”
Moreno, pleased at having been included, but at the same time somewhat
vexed at being described in such terms, rode along behind Elena, who
paid not the slightest attention to him. She remembered him only when
Canterac became too vehement in his attentions, riding close to her
horse and grasping her hand, or attempting other more or less daring
gallantries.
“Moreno,” she would manage to say, while the Captain was manœuvering for
place, “ride forward and stay on my left.... I don’t want the Captain so
near ... anyway they’re too bold! I don’t like military men!”
All three stopped their attempts at conversation to look intently at
Manos Duras who was waiting motionless at the side of the road. Moreno
knew who he was and murmured his name to Elena, whose interest in the
_gaucho_ was so keen that she yielded to her impulse to speak to him.
“So you are the famous Manos Duras of whom we have heard so often?”
The horseman seemed a little disturbed by Elena’s words, and more so by
her smile. He took off his sombrero with a reverential gesture--“as
though he were in front of a miracle-working picture,” thought
Moreno--Then, in a theatrical manner that was with him quite
spontaneous, he replied,
“I am that unhappy man, _señora_, and this present moment is the
happiest in my life.”
He looked at her with eyes in which she could plainly read a strange
mixture of worship and desire; and she smiled with pleasure at the
barbaric homage she was receiving.
Canterac, who thought the conversation ridiculous, indicated his
impatience by teasing his horse and protesting every few moments that
they ought to be getting on. But Elena did not choose to hear him, and,
with smiling interest, continued her conversation with the _gaucho_.
“They tell dreadful stories about you.... Are they true? How many
murders have you really committed?”
“Black calumnies, _señora_!” Manos Duras replied, looking straight into
her eyes. “But, if there are any murders I can commit for you, you have
only to ask!”
Elena seemed thoroughly pleased by this reply, and said with a look at
Canterac,
“How gallant the man is, in his way! You can’t deny that such offers as
these are pleasant to hear....”
But the engineer for some reason seemed more and more irritated by the
familiarity of this conversation between Elena and the cattle-rustler.
Repeatedly he tried to nose his horse between the mounts of the other
two, so as to put an end to the dialogue, but each time, with a gesture
of impatience, Elena checked him.
Seeing that she was bent on continuing her conversation with Manos Duras
he turned to Moreno; he had to express his anger to someone.
“This fellow is too presumptuous! We’ll have to give him a lesson!”
The government employee accepted without reservation the allusion to the
_gaucho’s_ presumption, but he merely shrugged at the suggestion of
teaching him better. What could _they_ do to this terrible bandit, if
even the _comisario_ had to show him a certain respect?
“You ought at least to stop them from buying his meat at the settlement.
Boycott him, that’s part of the answer!”
Moreno nodded with alacrity. The suggestion was easy enough to carry
out, if that was all that he would be asked to do....
Finally Elena moved on, bidding farewell to the _gaucho_ with a coquetry
excited by his emotion and the wolfish desire she saw in his eyes....
“Poor fellow! How interesting to meet him like this.”
And while the three riders went on, Manos Duras still remained
motionless by the road. He wanted to look a while longer at that woman.
A grave, thoughtful expression had come over his face as though he had a
presentiment that this meeting, in some way or other, was to affect his
life. But when Elena and her companions passed behind a hillock of sand
and disappeared from his range of vision, the _gaucho_ no longer felt
the dazzling stimulation of her presence. He smiled cynically to himself
while pictures of barbaric lubricity passed through his mind, driving
out his doubts and restoring to him his accustomed boldness.
“And why not?” he said to himself. “This is a woman, like those that
dance at the _boliche_ ... aren’t they all the same?”
Elena and her escorts went on along the river bank. Suddenly Elena
straightened up in her saddle so as to be able to see farther into the
distance.
In a meadow edged on the river side with young willows, were two horses,
saddled but not hitched. A man and a boy stood at the far end of the
meadow practising throwing the rope. The lariat they were using seemed
to be a light one, less heavy and rapid in the air than the lassoos of
woven leather that the native cow-punchers used.
More by instinct than by strength of sight, Elena recognized the boy.
Undoubtedly that was _Flor de Rio Negro_ teaching Watson to throw the
rope, and laughing at the _gringo’s_ clumsy attempts to master the
whirling, snake-like coils. Richard too, now that Torre Bianca went
daily to direct the canal work, was enjoying more liberty, and was using
it to follow the Rojas girl about in her rides and share in her childish
games.
Indicating to her companions that they were not to follow her, Elena
rode towards the meadow.
Celinda however was quicker to notice her than was Watson. With a sudden
right-about she turned her back on the intruder, and at the same time
ordered Watson to fix one of her spurs, which, so she said, had come
loose.
The youth, after kneeling at her feet for a moment, found the spur quite
firmly in place, and was about to get up. But she was determined to keep
him on his knees.
“I tell you, _gringuito_, that I’m going to lose it! Please fasten it
better!”
And it was only when she saw that Elena, offended, and well aware of the
girl’s hostility and strategem, had turned her horse about and was
riding away, that she allowed him to get up.
A little before sunset Elena’s party rode up the main street of the
town. In front of Pirovani’s house, which she now looked upon as hers,
Elena dismounted, leaning on Moreno, who, as she stepped to the ground,
had anticipated the Captain’s move to help her.
Offended, the Frenchman saluted with military abruptness, and rode away
without waiting until Elena had gone into the house. Another day
spoiled! He was furious with the others, and with himself.
Pirovani appeared, issuing from a side-street. As soon as the contractor
caught sight of Moreno who was going toward his house, he ran after him,
eager to hear about the episodes of an excursion to which he had not
been invited. With the easy credulity of the jealous, he believed that
Canterac must have won a great advance on him during that short ride
with the _marquesa_.
With childish satisfaction he smiled when the government employee told
him how, several times, the _señora marquesa_ had asked him to help her
keep the Frenchman at a proper distance.
“Of course I know that she can’t stand him,” said the Italian. “I’m not
so stupid that I can’t see that! But, as he’s the engineer in charge of
the works, and can do favors for Robledo and her husband, she doesn’t
dare tell him what she thinks of him....”
But his delight took a sharp fall when Moreno went on to tell him of the
encounter with Manos Duras, and the “presumption” with which the fellow
had talked to the “_señora marquesa_.”
This was too much for the contractor!
“All these people think they are everybody’s equal just because we are
all together here in this desert,” he exclaimed, scandalized. “Some fine
day this cattle thief will take it into his head to come to the
_marquesa’s_ parties, just as though he were one of us.... It’s
outrageous!”
“By the way,” said Moreno, “the Captain doesn’t want any more meat to be
bought of Manos Duras, nor any business done with him whatever. That’s
more in your hands than Canterac’s.”
Pirovani agreed with vehement signs of assent.
“And I’ll see to it! That Frenchman has the right idea for once. This is
the first time in weeks that he’s said anything I could see any sense
in!”