At first, he didn't believe that he'd seen it initially.
Dutch was snuffling about, green was curling up from the roots, the mud, the thawing ice, and Santiago had been sitting, enjoying the sun while watching his horse pluck up sprouting grasses with hungry little tugs and the wiggling of velvety lips, when he saw the curl of shoots from roots in the trajectory of his steed's path, and he got up to push that big muzzle away from them to get a better look.
They were small, surely, but there, little bursts of white among the greenery that could've easily been mistaken for more thawing snow - but sparse, amidst the shoots, were little starburst shaped flowers, and he clicked his tongue in disbelief.
"Well I'll be damned," he murmured, soft and quiet, before fishing about in his pouch for one of those tiny bottles of shine, and pouring it out, before scooping a minuscule amount of thawing snow in with his finger and cupping it between his palms, hot breath puffing against it to thaw the ice, and bedding it down into the mud a moment before scooting closer and pinching off stems, dipping them into the waiting, impromptu and very small vase, before getting back up.
"C'mon, Dutch," Santiago murmured, fetching the lead, before shuffling on back to camp.