wise be cheerful, since it is the face of Caspar, the gaucho.

Who the other is cannot be easily told, even with the bright sun beaming
upon him; for his hat, broad-brimmed, is slouched over his forehead,
concealing most part of his countenance. The head itself, oddly, almost
comically, inclined to one side, droops down till the chin nigh touches
his breast. Moreover, an ample cloak, which covers him from neck to
ankles, renders his figure as unrecognisable as his face. With his
horse following that of the gaucho, who leads him at long halter's
reach, he, too, has halted in the outer selvedge of the scrub; still
maintaining the same relative position to the other as when they rode
out from the _sumacs_, and without speaking word or making gesture. In
fact, he stirs not at all, except such motion as is due to the movement
of his horse; but beyond that he neither raises head nor hand, not even
to guide the animal, leaving it to be lead unresistingly.

Were the gaucho of warlike habits, and accustomed to making predatory
expeditions, he might be taken as returning from one with a captive,
whom he is conducting to some safe place of imprisonment. For just like
this his silent companion appears, either fast strapped to his own
saddle, or who, conquered and completely subdued, has resigned all
thoughts of resistance and hopes of escape. But Caspar is essentially a
man of peace, which makes it improbable that he, behind, is his
prisoner.

Whatever the relationship between them, the gaucho for the present pays
no attention to the other horseman, neither speaks to nor turns his eye
toward him; for these are now all upon the plain, scanning it from side
to side, and all round as far as he can command view of it. He is not
himself silent, however, though the words to which he gives utterance
are spoken in a low tone, and by way of soliloquy, thus:--

"'Twill never do to go back by the river's bank. Whoever the devils
that have done this dastardly thing, they may be still prowling about,
and to meet them would be for me to get served the same as they've
served him, that's sure; so I'd best take another route, though it be a
bit round the corner. Let me see. I think I know a way that should
lead tolerably straight to the estancia without touching the river or
going anywheres near it. I mustn't even travel within sight of it. If
the Tovas have had any hand in this ugly business--and, by the Virgin, I
believe they have,