“The very place for a comfortable camp,” says Gaspar, after inspecting it—the others agreeing with him to the echo.
Having returned to the ford for their horses, and led them up to the chosen ground, they are proceeding to strip the animals of their respective caparisons, when, lo! the alparejas, and other things, which were attached to the croup of Ludwig’s saddle, and should still be on it, are not there! All are gone—shaken off, no doubt, while the animal was plunging about in the stream—and with as little uncertainty now lying amidst the mud at its bottom.
As in these very saddle-bags was carried their commissariat—yerba, charqui, maize-bread, onions, and everything, and as over the cantle-peak hung their kettle, skillet, matés and bombillas, the loss is a lamentable one; in short, leaving them without a morsel to eat, or a vessel to cook with, had they comestibles ever so abundant!
At first they talk of going back to the ford, and making search for the lost chattels. But it ends only in talk; they have had enough of that crossing-place, so dangerously beset by those demonios, as Gaspar in his anger dubs the electric eels. For though his courage is as that of a lion, he does not desire to make further acquaintance with the mysterious monsters. Besides, there is no knowing in what particular spot the things were dropped; this also deterring them from any attempt to enter upon a search. The stream at its crossing-place is quite a hundred yards in width, and by this time the articles of metal, as the heavily-weighted saddle-bags, will have settled down below the surface, perhaps trampled into its slimy bed by the horse himself in his convulsive struggles. To seek them now would be like looking for a needle in a stack of straw. So the idea is abandoned; and for this night they must resign themselves to going supperless.
Fortunately, none of the three feels a-hungered; their dinner being as yet undigested. Besides, Gaspar is not without hope that something may turn up to reprovision them, ere the sun goes down. Just possible, the soldier-cranes may come back to the ford, and their fishing, so that another, with full crop, may fall within the loop of his lazo.
Having kindled a fire—not for cooking purposes, but to dry their ponchos, and other apparel saturated in the crossing of the stream—they first spread everything out; hanging them on improvised clothes-horses, constructed of caña brava—a brake of which skirts the adjacent stream. Then, overcome with fatigue, and still suffering from the effects of the animal electricity, they stretch themselves alongside the fire, trusting to time for their recovery.
Nor trust they in vain. For, sooner than expected, the volatile fluid—or whatever it may be—passes out of their veins, and their nervous strength returns; even Ludwig saying he is himself again, though he is not quite so yet.
And their animals also undergo a like rapid recovery, from browsing on the leaves and bean-pods of the algarobias; a provender relished by all pampas horses, as horned cattle, and nourishing to both. More than this, the fruit of this valuable tree when ripe, is fit food for man himself, and so used in several of the Argentine States.
This fact suggesting itself to Gaspar—as he lies watching the horses plucking off the long siliques, and greedily devouring them—he says:—
“We can make a meal on the algarobia beans, if nothing better’s to be had. And for me, it wouldn’t be the first time by scores. In some parts where I’ve travelled, they grind them like maize, and bake a very fair sort of bread out of their meal.”