onths ago--the water wasn't
quite up to our stirrups; but, like as not, last night's downpour has
raised it too, and we'll have a swim for it. Well, that won't matter
much. There, at all events, we can get the horses out; as the bank
slopes off gently. So there'll be no fear of our being stuck or sent
floundering in the stream. A regular Indian road, crosses the _riacho_
there, and has worn a rut running down to the channel on both sides."

His hearers are pleased at this intelligence; Cypriano signifying so by
the laconic rejoinder--

"_Esta bueno_."

Then follows an interval of silence; after which Gaspar, as if some new
thought had occurred to him, suddenly exclaims--

"_Santos Dios_! I'd forgotten that."

"Forgotten what?" both inquire, with a surprised, but not apprehensive
look; for the gaucho's words were not in this tone.

"Something," he answers, "which we ought to find at this very
crossing-place. A bit of good luck it's being here."

"And what do you expect from it?" questions Cypriano.

"I expect to learn whether we're still on the right track, or have
strayed away from it. We've been going by guesswork long enough; but,
if I don't greatly mistake we'll there see something to tell us whether
our guesses have been good or bad. If the redskins have come up the
river at all, it's pretty sure they also have crossed the _riacho_ at
this very ford, and we should there see some traces of them. Sure to
find them on the sloping banks, as we did by the _arroyo_. That will
count a score in our favour."

By the time he has ceased speaking, they have reached the _quebracha_;
and, soon as under its shadow, Gaspar again reins up, telling the others
to do the same. It is not that he has any business with the beacon
tree, as with that which served them for a barometer; but simply,
because they are once more within sight of the stream--out of view since
they left its bank below. The ford is also before their eyes, visible
over the tops of some low bordering bushes.

But what has now brought the gaucho to a stop is neither the stream, nor
its crossing-place; but a flock of large birds wading about in the
water, at the point where he knows the ford to be. Long-legged
creatures they are, standing as on stilts, and full five feet high,
snow-white in colour, all but their huge beaks, which are jet black,
with a band of naked skin around their necks, and a sort of pouch like a
pelican's, this being of a bri