Wild Life in the Land of the Giants: A Tale of Two Brothers

“Ah! yes, but I’m not going in her. Neither are you nor Greenie here. That’s what I came to speak about.”

“Well, heave round. I’ll be glad to hear what you have to say.”

“It’s very simple. Señor Castizo has taken an inordinate fancy for me. Dear Dulzura goes home with her maid to Valparaiso in about three weeks time, but her father stops. He is going into the wilds of Patagonia, where he has been before, and knows the lay of the land well. And he asked me to stay too, and accompany him.”

“Yes, and what did you say?”

“I said I’d do so like a shot, if I got you and Greenie to come with us.”

Jill’s eyes sparkled with delight.

“It would be simply glorious,” he said. “And I’m sure mother wouldn’t mind, nor aunt either.”

“But we haven’t much money to rig up,” I said.

“Oh, we’ve enough, I assure you. It’s a cheap country to live in. Castizo says about all a man wants is a guanaco robe and a gun, with a horse or two, and there you are.”

I confess I was quite as struck with the notion of having a few wild adventures in the Land of the Giants as Jill was; but, being the elder, I was of course bound to prudence and discretion.

“We’d have to write a very long letter home,” I said.

“Well, you’re capable of doing that, I believe.”

“And state that there is little danger, and that it will recruit Jill’s health.”

“Capital phrase!” cried Peter. “Jack, you’re quite a diplomatist.”

“But,” I added, “is there much danger?”

“Not very much, from the way Castizo speaks. I would bear very lightly on those if I were you.”

“And you know, Jack,” said Jill, “adventures would not be much worth without just a soupçon of danger.”

“True. Well, I must confess I’m willing. What about Ritchie?”

“He and another man are coming with us.”

“And Captain Coates and our dear little mother?”

“Going home. They must, you know. We needn’t. And it isn’t French leave either. You and I and Jill are shipwrecked mariners – that, by the way, is why we are objects of interest and romance to Dulzura. We’re shipwrecked mariners, and it isn’t as if we were apprentices.”

“We are all passed mates.”

“And the Salamander was aunt’s ship,” added Jill. “She can get us another.”

“True, Jill; you’re a brick.”

“Well,” he added, “is it a bargain?”

“Yes,” I said, speaking for Jill and myself too. Then we all shook hands, and the conversation took another turn; that is – it went back to Dulzura.

Chapter Nineteen

Book III – The Land of Giants

All Alone on the Pampas – The Camp in the Cañon

Alone on the Pampas. Alone in the moonlight. Alone amidst scenery so black, so bare, so desolate, that looking back now through a long vista of years, as I sit by my cosy English fireside, I shudder to think of it.

There was nought of life to be seen anywhere, save that single horseman on his trusty steed who stopped for a moment on an upland ridge to gaze around him. Not a tree; hardly a bush; the very grass itself in stunted patches, with rough boulders lying here and there as if they had been rained from the heavens. No signs of house nor habitation, only the sharply undulating plain, wherever the eye might turn, and far away on the western horizon, hills or mountains snow-clad, glimmering white in the uncertain light of moon and stars.

The moon? Yes, and I have oftentimes thought, while on the Pampas, that if one could reach that orb, it would be just such a landscape as this he would see on every side; and if wind blows there at all, it would be just such a wind, as is now moaning and sighing over this dreary plain from the distant Cordilleras.

It was neither a wild nor a stormy night, however. Behind a huge bank of yellow clouds, that lay high over the mountains, the lightning was flickering and playing every moment; the breeze was not high nor was it extra cold, being early summer in this region. It is the desolation and the exceeding lonesomeness of the situation that strikes to the heart and feelings of one when he thinks of it.

And the deep silence!

Were there no sounds at all? Very few; only that moaning, sighing, whispering wind, rising at times into almost a shriek, then dying away again till it could scarce be heard. A wind in which, had you been at all nervous, you might have almost declared you heard voices, human or ghostly. Only the wind, and now and then the cry of some night-hawk or its victim; or the plaintive, peevish yap of the prairie fox.

Very marked indeed is the silence by night on the Patagonian Pampas. Not more so anywhere except on the broad, glittering snow-fields of the Arctic “pack,” or the highest plateaus of the Himalayan hills.

So tall and square is the figure of the horseman, whose rifle is slung across his shoulders, and so active, yet sturdy and strong, does his horse look, that standing there on the ridge, he has all the picturesqueness of a mounted Arab.

He shudders slightly now and draws his guanaco mantle closer about him, gazes once more around as if taking his bearings, then rides slowly on.

Presently he comes near a bush, a stunted barberia and draws rein speedily, for from under it fierce green eyes glare at him, and a sound, which is half yawn half yell of anger, makes him place a hand on his revolver.

He does not fire, however; he waits. Then a huge puma gathers itself up and edges off, drawing its graceful length along the ground, but making off still with head turned towards him, and breathing hoarse defiance, till, with bounds and leaps, he is soon out sight. When the puma has quite disappeared, he rides on again, but with a little more caution, avoiding the bushes. Where there is one puma there may be, and generally is, another.

He does not draw rein again for a good hour. Uphill and downhill, but mostly on the gravelly level, till all at once he finds himself on the bank of a cañon or ravine.

He bends down now and pats the neck of his horse. The animal neighs, and is answered from the bottom of the glen; then the horseman slowly descends, carefully, and with judicious hand restraining the impatience of his steed. So steep is the bank that the hind legs of the horse sometimes slip right under him, and loosened stones roll down to the green sward below.

Low down in the strath here there is a stream of water, a river in fact, rushing along, its waters sparkling in the moonlight, and everywhere on its banks the sward is green and beautiful. Here a whole herd of horses are quietly grazing. They look up as the horseman approaches, and toss their heads as if happy to have a new companion, while from some little distance the barking of dogs is heard, and presently a huge animal – looking huger still in the uncertain light – comes bounding straight through the herd of horses, and challenges the rider. The dog’s hair is erect from head to stern, and he growls low but ominously.

“Good dog,” says Señor Castizo; “don’t you know me? Poor Ossian, poor boy!”

The dog knows him very well indeed, but gives him to understand that he – Ossian – is on guard to-night, and must be careful.

“It is easy to know you,” Ossian seems to say. “My nose has not failed me yet. I’d know you with my eyes shut. But what are you doing out alone at night? It looks bad. No, you needn’t call me poor boy. I’m not I’m Ossian, and with the exception of honest Bruce, the other dogs are not worth a bark. You can follow me now, but be careful.”

Ossian ran on in front, growling low to himself, and the horseman followed. As soon as they had rounded the corner of a rock bluff, they came in sight of the camp, and now Ossian stopped short and gave vent to such an alarm-peal that every one speedily rushed outside their tents. It might be hostile Indians, they thought. When living in the desert one must be at all times cautious.

But here was no hostile Indian, only honest, bold Castizo.

Peter and I were the first to rush towards him, and bid him welcome. I caught the horse by the head. The brute was longing to join the herd. Peter, always impulsive, grasped his friend’s hand even before he had dismounted.

“We were really getting anxious about you.”