Instead over the horizon she saw that a posse of men on horseback was approaching. They were riding close together, a dark pattern against the flower-covered plain, just as she had seen them the day before.

For one moment her instinct was to turn and ride away. She wanted to find out everything she could about El Diablo, but somehow she did not want to meet him now, so late in the evening!

And yet surely that was absurd? She had tried to make enquiries about him – she had planned to expose him and she had even thought that one day she would ferret out where he lived.

And, when she came to think about it, to brave his insolence now was better than to encounter any more of those blank refusals to speak of him.

She glanced quickly at her two companions. If they were like the boys she had with her yesterday, this was when they should turn and run away, but they were sitting still and impassive, watching the men approach.

“Who is coming?” Skye enquired, wondering if for once she would hear the truth, but as usual the blank stupidity of their expressions concealed everything but their guile.

“We don’t know, señorita,” was the reply, “but it would be best to wait and see, not to run away.”

“In which case,” Skye said, “we will go and meet them.”

She moved forward and knew, without looking back, that the two guides were following her.

The men were coming nearer, but there were more of them than yesterday. They were riding quickly with the ease that seemed characteristic of every gaucho in Mariposa, so that he looked a part of his horse rather than a separate entity from it.

They came closer still. Skye could see now that these men were better dressed than those she had encountered yesterday. They all wore the baggy bombachas and loose jackets, but their harnesses glittered with silver as did their saddles and stirrups and several had swinging from their shoulders the short brightly coloured cloaks called ponchos. Red, blue and yellow, the colours gave them a picturesque attraction.

Then, as Skye looked among the approaching band, she realised that someone was missing, the man she had expected to see – the leader, with his hawk-like countenance and unmistakable broad shoulders. He was not there!

She felt unreasonably disappointed.

The men came galloping up to her, reined in their horses suddenly so that they reared dramatically and the foremost rider, a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face like old leather and heavy black moustaches, swept his hat from his head.

“Buenos dias, señorita!”

“Buenos dias, señor,” Skye replied.

He rode forward, his horse stirrup to stirrup with hers and held out his right hand in greeting. She smiled and shook hands with him.