Chapter Twenty Two.
A Blinding Summer-Snowstorm—Peter as a Horseman—Peter in a Fix.
Such is the exhilarating and toning power of the air on the Pampas, that though we had all lain down tired enough, we felt as fresh next morning as mountain trouts.
The only feeling that remained from our exertions of yesterday was a kind of gentle and not unpleasant languor. We were therefore in no great hurry to depart. But as towards ten o’clock the clouds began to bank up and obscure the sun in the north and east, and our present camp was not one of the best-positioned, Castizo gave the order for departure.
We had not gone far till up started an ostrich right from under Jill’s horse’s nose, and lo! and behold, our first find of a nest—if nest it could be called.
As there were but fifteen eggs in it, we were sure they would be fresh, so we quickly appropriated them, the poor bird himself and his mate, who was not far away, both falling victims to the bolas of the Indians.
Perhaps it was just as well; it took them away from sorrow.
A most exemplary parent and husband is the ostrich. The hen bird lays over a score of eggs, and the cock considers it his duty to do the greater part of the hatching. At all events, he sits on the nest for about eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, and before he leaves the nest carefully turns every egg over. Then he goes away to stretch his legs and scratch a bit for his breakfast, which it must be allowed he has fairly earned. While he is gone it is the hen’s turn to brood, so that between them, in about a month’s time, they usually succeed in raising a very large family of the most idiotic-looking chickens it has ever been my good fortune to cast eyes upon.
There is no close time for the ostrich on the Pampas of Patagonia, and it will probably be a very long time indeed before there is one. Meanwhile, despite hunters, white and brown, wild cats, pumas, and foxes, the birds thrive and abound in such quantities, that the wonder is that more sportsmen from this country do not go to Patagonia to try their luck.
As we advanced on our journey to-day the weather seemed to grow colder and colder. The wind went down at last. It had not been high all the morning. Then little morsels of snow began to fall. They were no bigger than millet-seeds, but Jeeka shook his head when he saw them, pointed upwards, then around him, and said something to our cacique in Patagonian.
The millet-seed snow gradually merged into flakes; bigger and bigger did these grow, till at last we were in the midst of a blinding summer’s snowstorm.
It was impossible to see even a few yards ahead, so we formed into line, one going in front of the other, Jeeka and Castizo being ahead. Castizo had a compass. Jeeka seemed to carry a compass in the brain. He appeared to know every rock, every bush, and every tussock of grass, disguised though they now were in a mantle of snow.
By and by Castizo came to the rear, where, with heads down and with our arms often across our faces, leaving it entirely to the horses to follow the trail, Peter, Jill, and I were struggling on.
“How do you like it?” he said cheerfully to Jill, who was the centre figure.
“I’ve been more agreeably situated many a time,” replied Jill.
“And I’ve been more agreeably seat-uated too,” cried Peter, with a glance behind him, which almost cost him the seat he was punning about. For when on horseback, poor Peter was always like the rocking-stone on the Cornish hills—touch and go. Only the rocking-stone never does go. Peter did frequently, and although the sly dog at first pretended that he could ride, he had the reckless courage to confess now that he had been mistaken. He would not venture to look up in the air, he said, for anything; and whenever he was rash enough to glance behind him, as he did now, he had to clutch at the saddle with both hands.
“Peter!” I shouted, “you’ll fall, little boy.”
“He deserves to,” said Jill, “after making so despicable a pun.”
“Well,” said Castizo, laughing, “seat or no seat, Peter, you will have to remain in that saddle for many hours to come. You’ll have to dine there, too.”
“Will I, indeed? Well, mon ami, before night comes I’ll be as soft as a jellyfish or a lightly boiled egg. But never mind, if I’m to be a martyr, here goes. I’m willing.”
Just at that very moment, as if fate were all against Peter, his horse stumbled and the rider tumbled. Then the steed stood stock still, and Peter got up, rubbing himself amid a chorus of laughing. We really could not help it, he looked so comical and ridiculous. Castizo had to hold his sides, and Nadi, who was next in front, and of course jumped to the conclusion that Peter had done it on purpose, and that he was the most humorous youth under the sun, made the Pampa ring with her merry laughter.
“He, he, hee-ee!” she laughed. “O Engleese! Engleese!”
But Peter himself looked as solemn as a judge with the black cap on. He simply rubbed himself.
“That’s the way it’s done, you see,” he said at last. “You thought I would remain in the saddle for many hours, did you, my friend? Ah! you don’t know Peter Jeffries yet.”
“Well, Peter,” I said, “I should think that falling off would get somewhat monotonous at last.”
“I don’t fall off. The beast pitches me off Come, Jack, don’t you sit and grin there like a cub fox at a dead turkey. Get down and give a fellow a leg-up.”
I did as told, and Peter was soon seated once more. Nadi departed still laughing, for she never could imagine that any one, unless a squaw, would ask a “leg-up.” She imagined it was all part of the performance. Peter was evidently a favourite of hers.
This was still more evident when, about an hour afterwards, wishing to adjust her robe, she rode coolly alongside his horse and, before Peter could tell what she was about, deposited the baby in his arms.
Peter looked aghast, though he kept firm hold of the child.
“Honi soit qui mal y pense!” he said, solemnly. “Honey, suet, marling-spikes, and pens! I’m in a fix now. Jack, dear boy, are you behind me? I daren’t look round for the world!”
“I’m here,” I answered, choking with laughter.
“Pray for me, Jack. I’ll do as much for you again. Goodness gracious, Jack! if I’ve got to leave the saddle now, I’ll be death of this darling child. If the horse should stumble or baby should kick, it’s all up with us; and I haven’t made my will either.”
Here the baby sneezed, and Peter swayed unsteadily in the saddle.
“Hoop!” he cried. “I did think it was all up with me then. Jack, will you have baby?”
“Not I, thank you.”
“Jill, you’re a dear, good fellow. You’ll take the baby, won’t you? The mother has gone away forward somewhere. Do, old man. I’ll never call you Greenie again.”
“I won’t have little copper-face.”
“Well, then,” said Peter, doggedly, “if it should sneeze again there’ll be manslaughter. That’s all.”
But, greatly to our shipmate’s relief, back came Nadi, and once more secured her darling. Peter smiled now, but he gave a big sigh of relief that might have been heard all over the Pampas.
“You chaps,” he said, “boast about your feats of horsemanship; but just let any of you try riding over the wide wild prairie with a baby in your arms. Well, I’ve done that, and don’t you forget it.”
The storm grew worse instead of better; the snow fell thicker and faster every moment. And now something very strange occurred, for suddenly it became very dark. One would have thought night was falling. While we were all wondering what was about to happen, a blinding flash of lightning spread itself athwart the gloom, followed almost immediately after by a rattling peal of thunder. Flash succeeded flash, peal after peal of thunder, harsh, sharp, and deafening, reverberated from rock to rock. It was unlike any thunder I had ever heard before—not the deep bass roar that one listens to in a storm off the Cape, nor the crashing big-gun sound of thunder in the mountains. The noise was of a tearing, rending character, and resembled platoon or volley firing as near as anything I know of. But the effect of the lightning among the falling snow was most beautiful and wonderful. And whenever a more brilliant and dazzling flash than usual occurred, for a few seconds thereafter the flakes looked purple, blue, and crimson, and sometimes nearly black.
Our horses stood the storm well, for they are marvellously trained animals.
It got lighter now, and gradually the snow ceased to fall, and we could see the sky. Blue it was towards the eastern horizon, with one dark, unbroken canopy of clouds moving fast away overhead towards the Cordilleras.
Back rolled the great cloud-curtain, and presently out shone the glorious sun, and the scene around us was now beautiful but dazzling in the extreme.
We rode on through the Pampas all that day. Whenever we came to a lagoon—and we passed many—we noticed that the water looked as black as ink. It is the same with the sea in the Arctic regions, the contrast in colour accounting for the optical illusion.
We saw many ducks on these lakes, as well as a species of wild geese; but Castizo did not think it advisable to delay our advance for the sake of sport, especially as our larder was full to repletion.
The sun was setting when we reached our camping ground, which was under the lee of a terrace of rocks and close to a pretty little lake. Tired though we all were, more particularly Peter, we could not help pausing to marvel at the extraordinary beauty of the snow-clad hills of the west. Their strange and fantastic summits, and even far down towards the base of the mountains, were lit up with a glory of colour which in no country of the world have I ever seen rivalled or equalled. The shadows or shades were sharply defined and of a bluish purple hue. The high lights were either of pure white or the most delicate shades of crimson. What a beautiful world this is, after all, if we could be but content with it! and every sort of weather, every sort of scenery, and every season, whether spring, summer, autumn or winter, has its own peculiar charm to one who is at home with Nature or Nature’s God.
Our men and the Indians now bustled about, and in less than half an hour the toldos were erected and the dinner nearly ready. Our dish to-night was to be a Patagonian stew, the meat consisting of the tit-bits of the guanaco and ostrich, with a kind of tuberous root dug up by the Indians, and which is indeed a palatable adjunct to diet on the Pampas. Another dish was to be a mash of ostriches’ eggs, which, well salted and peppered and mixed with a morsel of guanaco suet, is food fit for a hungry king.
But while dinner was cooking, and in order to pass the time, Ritchie, Jill, and I went down by the side of the lagoon to look for game, while Peter lay down in the toldo to rub himself.
We had half an hour’s splendid sport. Owing to the weather, perhaps, the birds did not care to fly, so we had to shoot them afloat Ossian would not take the water to retrieve, so Bruce had all the work to do, and very nimbly and energetically he did it too. There were with us several of the ordinary Pampas whippets, but they merely sat with their tails in the snow and looked on. It really seemed to us that Bruce was showing off a bit on his own account, for although he might have waded into the water, this did not suit him. It was not effective enough. He must give one warning bark first to attract the attention of the mongrels—the bark sounding almost like the word “look?”—then down he came with a feathering rush, sprang far into the water, swam up to his bird, caught it nimbly and brought it out.
We retired early, and slept very sound indeed, particularly Peter.