Even to think of him added fuel to Skye’s anger and hatred until, forcing herself to look ahead, she kept her eyes away from the man riding beside her.

They rode on for perhaps an hour and then came to a low hacienda shielded by a clump of eucalyptus trees.

Two men came running out to talk with El Diablo. Skye gathered that they were the owners of the farm and she was surprised to note the deference and eagerness they greeted him with. They spoke of their stock and then with a friendly ‘buenos dias’ they were riding on again over the rolling country to the next hacienda.

They visited half a dozen, El Diablo listening to the troubles of the owners, giving advice and sometimes issuing orders.

At times Skye noticed, when the farm was a very poor one, that he gave the owner money, heavy silver pesos that he carried in his saddlebag.

They were moving inland all the time, keeping North of the river, the mountains on their right.

Skye had a good bump of locality and while they were riding she kept her eyes open for possible landmarks that might one day be of use to her.

Jācara lay behind them, as they were heading South at the moment, but due East of the camp.

It was about noon when they stopped at a hacienda where their coming was anticipated and a meal was laid for them.

It was a primitive, rough meal, very unlike the good food El Diablo had prepared for him in his own camp, but he ate with apparent enjoyment while Skye had to force herself to swallow even a few mouthfuls of the puchero, a stew of tough newly-killed meat that had been cooked over a wood fire.

There was also home-baked maize bread with goat’s milk cheese and for the gauchos quantities of a local rough red wine and, of course, the inevitable yerba maté. The only sweet was a spoonful of quince jelly, very sweet and sticky, which made the gauchos suck their lips appreciatively.

All the time they were eating, waited on by the womenfolk of the farm, the owner talked, grumbling in long monotonous undertones of his troubles. He was an unprepossessing sight with a greasy shirt bulging over greasy bombachas, his dirty naked feet thrust into ragged rope-soled slippers.

“Misery, misery!” he seemed to be saying and he looked the personification of it.

He complained that the cattle had done well, but now there was no market for them. What was to become of him and of the farmers like him if they could not find a market?

El Diablo said nothing until the meal was finished. Then he rose to his feet and put a handful of silver pesos down on the table.

“Markets will be found,” he said. “For the moment you have to be patient. If we hurry things now, we are likely to lose everything.”