Chapter Fifty Nine.
In the Campo.
Five years spent in foreign travel, confined to the continent of America, found me in the southern division of it—on the banks of the River La Plata.
Choice and chance combining—a little business with the prospect of a large amount of pleasure—had conducted me into the Argentine Republic; and the same had carried me into one of its upper provinces, bordering upon the Parana.
I was journeying through the campo about twenty miles north of Rosario, from which place I had taken my departure. My object was to reach the estancia of an English colonist—an old college friend—who had established himself as a cattle-breeder and wool-grower some fifty miles from Rosario.
I went on horseback, and alone. I had failed in engaging a guide; but, knowing that my friend’s house stood near the banks of the river, I fancied there could be no difficulty in finding it. There were other estancias along the route; sparsely scattered, it is true; but still thick enough to give me a chance of inquiring the way. Besides, the river itself should guide me to a certain extent; at all events, it would keep me from going many miles astray. My horse was an excellent roadster; and I was expecting to do the fifty miles—a mere bagatelle to a South American steed—before sunset. And in all likelihood I should have succeeded, if in the kingdom of animated nature there had been no such creature as a biscacha. But, unluckily, there is—an animal whose habit is to honeycomb the campo with holes, in places forming most treacherous traps for the traveller’s horse. In one of these, while traversing a stretch of pampa, my steed was imprudent enough to plant his hoof; when first sinking, and then stumbling, he rolled over upon the plain; and, of course, his rider along with him. The rider was but slightly injured, but the horse very seriously. On getting him upon his feet, I found he could scarce stand—much less carry me the thirty miles that still separated us from my friend’s estancia. He had injured one of his forelegs, and was just able to limp after me as I led him from the spot. I felt that I had got into a dilemma, and would have to walk the rest of the way, besides making a second day of it. Perhaps not, I reflected, on seeing before me, at no great distance, some signs of a habitation.
There was a clump of trees, most of which appeared to be peaches. This of itself would not have proved the proximity of a dwelling, for in many parts of the Argentine territory the peach-trees grow wild. But I saw something more;—a bit of white wall gleaming through the green foliage, with something like smoke ascending. Around all was a stretch of stockade fence, indicating an enclosure.
Turning directly towards it, I led on my lame horse, in the hope of the chance to exchange him for one better able to bear me to the end of the journey.