He answers that he is looking for her husband, and she directs him with a sweep of the hand which covers a quadrant of the compass and includes several square leagues of thick forest.  Taking a likely track, however, he soon hears the ring of axe-strokes, and finds his man patiently chipping away at a felled tree, which is rapidly taking the form of a baulk, with the sides as smooth as if sawn.

His horse is tied up near, and he takes the Mayor-domo through his “corte,” showing him the wood prepared for the carters.  Give him a chance and he will count every log twice (most likely he has already plastered mud over the marks which show the rotten patch in the wood, and is wondering whether he has cleared the black sufficiently off a piece of “campana” to persuade a reasonable man that it is really fresh wood).

It is part of the inspector’s stock in trade to know these and a myriad other tricks, too numerous to take separately.

The typical axeman in the Santa Fe Chaco is more genuinely “childlike” than, and quite as “bland” as, the famous Celestial.  He never quite grows up; he will spend his last dollar on a mouth-organ when he is forty, and give a wild war-whoop of delight as a stack of newly piled sleepers falls crashing to the ground.

He loves sweets and the bright clothes which he wears with childish dignity on feast-days and holidays.

His amour propre is tremendous, and influences his code of honour to a great extent.  The first ten commandments he will break most cheerfully, but the eleventh—­“Thou shalt not be found out”—­he respects to the best of his power.

Stealing, for instance, he regards as a pastime, but call him a thief and you must be prepared for trouble.  A perfect instance of this can be quoted in the case of an estanciero who found a peon wearing one of his shirts.

[Illustration:  Square Quebracho Logs worked by the Axeman, showing Resin oozing therefrom.]

“You are wearing my shirt,” said the master.  “No, Senor; I bought it in the store.”  “But you stole it from me,” insisted the estanciero, pointing to the tab at the front, where his name was written in marking ink; “there is my name on it.”

The man, being quite illiterate, had not reckoned on such damning evidence, but he recovered himself and replied with dignity:  “Very well, Senor; if it is yours, take it; but don’t call me a thief.”

Honesty is with them, admittedly, a matter of degree.  A man will always say if questioned about some small deficiency, “Do you think I would swindle you for a matter of two dollars?” or “Do you think I would risk my credit with the Company for the sake of one calf?” To be honest in a case where a larger profit is involved is a height of integrity to which he does not even pretend.  “I am going to be frank with you”—­that is an expression which puts the wise man on his guard, for it is generally followed by a cascade of lies.