He was familiar with every mile of the road from the banks of the Paraná to the rocky bases of the Andes. He could not, like the geographer, tell the exact longitude, in numbers, of the principal towns of the republic, but he knew where they were situated, and could travel towards them without missing the true direction in the darkest nights.
Don Manuel never offered his advice in a boisterous manner, as though in authority, but quietly said to the patron, “Three leagues to the right of the road are about thirty squares of good grass, and farther on to the left is a small lagoon of water not yet dried up.” His word was always respected, and the usual answer of the patron was, “Do as you please, Don Manuel; I have confidence in your judgment.”
A native author gives the following description of the baqueano, which will correctly apply to Don Manuel:—
“If lost upon the plain, he dismounts, and by examining the soil decides upon his latitude, and tells his companions the distance that they are from habitations. If this is not enough, he pulls grass from different localities and chews the roots, decides upon their proximity to some pond or rivulet, fresh or salt, and departs in search of it, to decide upon his position.
“General Rosas can tell by taste the grass of every farm south of Buenos Ayres.
“The guide likewise announces the nearness of the enemy when within ten miles of him, and the direction from which he is coming, by means of the movements of birds, and by the deer and wild llamas that run in certain directions. When the enemy is near at hand he observes the dust, and by its thickness counts the force. He says they number two thousand, five hundred, two hundred, as the case may be, and the chief acts under this instruction, which is almost invariably correct.
“If the condors and vultures flutter in a circle in the air, he can tell if there are any persons hid, or if there is an encampment recently abandoned, or if the cause of their movements is merely a dead animal.”
Such is the true baqueano, and such was Don Manuel. At noon we halted near a couple of cerros, the commencement of the San Luis chain of mountains, The peons killed an ox, but as there was no grass for the cattle we did not remain long enough to cook an asado. This was the more aggravating, since we had none of us eaten anything since the morning of the previous day.
At two o’clock the caravan again halted—this time to water the animals from a stream that flowed through a quebrada (valley), along which were scattered a few ranchos, whose inhabitants lived on pumpkins and porridge, the latter being valued at one real per quart. A troop from Mendoza passed us at this encampment, and I took advantage of the opportunity to get rid of some cut reals, that are current in Rosario, for several bunches of grapes. This troop had also packed in wicker baskets oranges and figs, a quantity of which I purchased to divide with my friends, the old Indian and the squaw. I offered a bunch of grapes to Facundo, but his sour disposition would not allow him to accept.
From the river the road wound over a plain abounding in thorn trees and cacti. Here also grew a low plant bearing red berries, and resembling peppers in taste. The fruit was eagerly sought for by the peons, who, throughout the remainder of the journey, seasoned their stews with it.