Notwithstanding this queer custom,—usually regarded as savage,—it would be unjust to call the Patagonian a savage. If we overlook the circumstance of his painting himself,—which, after all, is scarce more absurd than numberless practices of civilised life,—if we excuse him for too scantily covering the nakedness of his person, and relishing his food a little “underdone,” we find little else, either in his habits or his moral nature that would entitle him to be termed a savage. On the contrary, from all the testimony that can be obtained,—in all the intercourse which white men have had with him,—there is scarce an act recorded, that would hinder his claim to being considered as civilised as they. Honourable and amiable, brave and generous, he has ever proved himself; and never has he exhibited those traits of vindictive ferocity supposed to be characteristic of the untutored man. He has not even harboured malice for the wrongs done him by the unprincipled adventurer Magellan: who, in his treatment of these people, proved himself more of a savage than they. But the Patagonian restrained his vengeance; and apparently burying the outrage in oblivion, has ever since that time treated the white man with a generous and dignified friendship. Those who have been shipwrecked upon his solitary shores, have had no reason to complain of the treatment they have received at his hands. He is neither cannibal, nor yet barbarian,—but in truth a gentleman,—or, if you prefer it, a gentleman savage.
But how does this gentleman maintain himself? We have already seen that he is not a fisherman,—for he owns no species of boat; and without that his chances of capturing fish would be slight and uncertain. We have stated, moreover, that his country is a sterile desert; and so it is,—producing only the scantiest of herbage; neither plant, nor tree, that would furnish food; and incapable of being cultivated with any success. But he does not attempt cultivation,—he has no knowledge of it; nor is it likely he would feel the inclination, even if tempted by the most fertile soil. Neither is he pastoral in his habits: he has no flocks nor herds. The horse and dog are his only domestic animals; and these he requires for other purposes than food. The former enables him to pass easily over the wide tracts of his sterile land, and both assist him in the chase,—which is his true and only calling. One of the chief objects of his pursuit is the ostrich; and he eats the flesh of this fine desert bird. He eats it, whenever he can procure it; but he could not live solely upon such food: since he could not obtain it in sufficient quantity; and were this bird the only means he had for supplying his larder, he would soon be in danger of starvation. True, the ostrich lays a great many eggs, and brings forth a large brood of young; but there are a great many hungry mouths, and a great many large stomachs among the Patagonian people. The ostrich could never supply them all; and were it their only resource, the bird would soon disappear from the plains of Patagonia, and, perhaps, the race of Patagonian giants along with it.
Fortunately for the Patagonian, his country furnishes him with another kind of game, from which he obtains a more sufficient supply; and that is the guanaco. Behold yonder herd of stately creatures! There are several hundreds of them in all. Their bodies are covered with long, woolly hair of a reddish-brown colour. If they had antlers upon their heads, you might mistake them for stags,—for they are just about the size of the male of the red deer. But they have no horns; and otherwise they are unlike these animals,—in their long slender necks, and coat of woolly hair. They are not deer of any kind,—they are guanacos. These, then, are the herds of the Patagonian Indian; they are the game he chiefly pursues; and their flesh the food, upon which he is mainly subsisted.
I need not here give the natural history of the guanaco. Suffice it to say that it is one of the four (perhaps five) species of llamas or “camel-sheep” peculiar to the continent of South America,—the other three of which are the vicuña, the true llama, and the paco, or alpaca. The llama and alpaca are domesticated; but the vicuña, the most graceful of all, exists only in a wild state, like the guanaco. The four kinds inhabit the tablelands of the Andes, from Colombia to Chili; but the guanaco has extended its range across to the Atlantic side of the continent: this only in the territory south of the La Plata River. On the plains of Patagonia it is the characteristic quadruped: rarely out of sight, and usually seen in herds of twenty or thirty individuals; but sometimes in large droves, numbering as many as five hundred. There the puma—after the Indian of course—is its greatest enemy,—and the débris of his feast constitutes the food of the vultures and vulture-eagles,—thus accounting for the presence of these great birds in such a desert land.
The guanaco is among the shyest of quadrupeds; and its capture would be difficult to any one unacquainted with its habits. But these betray them to the skilled Patagonian hunter,—who is well acquainted with every fact in the natural history of the animal.
The Patagonian mode of capturing these creatures is not without many peculiarities in hunting practice. His first care is to find out their whereabouts: for the haunts which the guanacos most affect are not the level plains, where they might be seen from afar, but rather those places where the ground is hilly or rolling. There they are to be met with, ranged in extended lines along the sides of the hills, with an old male keeping watch upon the summit of some eminence that overlooks the flock. Should the sentinel espy any danger, or even suspect it, he gives the alarm by uttering a shrill, whistling cry, somewhat resembling a neigh. On hearing this well-known signal, the others at once take to flight, and gallop straight for the side of some other hill,—where they all halt in line, and stand waiting to see if they are followed. Very often the first intimation which the hunter has of their presence, is by hearing their strange signal of flight,—which may be described as a sort of triangular cross between squealing, neighing, and whistling.
Shy as they are, and difficult to be approached, they have the strange peculiarity of losing all their senses when put into confusion. On these occasions they behave exactly like a flock of sheep: not knowing which way to ran; now dashing to one side, then to the other, and often rushing into the very teeth of that danger from which they are trying to escape!
Knowing their stupidity in this respect, the Patagonian hunter acts accordingly. He does not go out to hunt the guanacos alone, but in company with others of his tribe, the hunting-party often comprising the whole tribe. Armed with their “chuzos,”—light cane spears of eighteen feet in length,—and mounted on their well-trained steeds, they sally forth from their encampment, and proceed to the favourite pasturing-ground of the guanacos. Their purpose is, if possible, to effect the “surround” of a whole herd; and to accomplish this, it is necessary to proceed with great skill and caution. The animals are found at length; and, by means of a deployment of dogs and horsemen, are driven towards some hill which may be convenient to the pasture. The instinct of the animal guiding it thither, renders this part of the performance easy enough. On reaching the hill, the guanacos dash onward, up to its summit; and there, halting in a compact crowd, make front towards their pursuers. These meanwhile have galloped into a circle,—surrounding the eminence on all sides; and, advancing upwards amidst loud yells and the yelping of their dogs, close finally around the herd, and rush forward to the attack.
The long chuzos do their work with rapidity; and, in a few minutes, numbers of the guanacos lie lifeless among the rocks. The dogs, with some men, form an outer circle of assailants; and should any guanacos escape through the line of horsemen, they are seized upon by the dogs, and pinned to the spot,—for it is another sheep-like trait in the character of this animal, that the moment a dog—even though he be the merest cur—seizes hold of it, it neither attempts further flight nor resistance, but remains “pinned” to the spot as if under a paralysis of terror. They sometimes give battle, however, though never to a dog; and their mode of assault is by kicking behind them,—not with their hoofs as horses do, but with the knee-joints, the hind legs being both raised at once. Among themselves the males fight terrible battles: biting each other with their teeth, and often inflicting cruel lacerations.
Strange to say, when the guanacos are found solitary, or only two or three together, they are far less shy than when assembled in large herds. At such times, the feeling of curiosity seems stronger than that of fear within them; and the hunter can easily approach within a dozen paces of one, by simply cutting a few capers, or holding up something that may be new to it,—such as a strip of coloured rag, or some showy article of any kind. It was by such devices that the Patagonian captured these creatures, before possession of the horse enabled him to effect their destruction in the more wholesale fashion of the “surround.”