Every one instantly understood the case of this poor man, half crazed
at the sudden recollection of his wasted and ruined life, and it did
not seem right that he should bleed and perhaps die for such a cause,
and all at once there was a rush and the crowd thrust itself between
him and his antagonist and hustled him a dozen yards away. Then one in
the crowd, an old man, shouted: "Do you think, friend, that you are
the only one in this gathering who lost his liberty and all he
possessed on earth in that fatal year? I, too, suffered as you have
suffered - "
"And I!" "And I!" shouted others, and while this noisy demonstration
was going on some of those who were pressing close to the stranger
began to ask him if he knew who the man was he had forbidden to sing
of 1840? Had he never heard of Barboza, the celebrated fighter who had
killed so many men in fights?
Perhaps he had heard and did not wish to die just yet: at all events a
change came over his spirit; he became more rational and even
apologetic, and Barboza graciously accepted the assurance that he had
no desire to provoke a quarrel.
And so there was no fight after all!
The second occasion was about two years later - a long period, during
which there had been a good many duels with knives in our
neighbourhood; but Barboza was not in any of them, no person had come
forward to challenge his supremacy. It is commonly said among the
gauchos that when a man has proved his prowess by killing a few of his
opponents, he is thereafter permitted to live in peace.
One day I attended a cattle-marking at a small native estancia a few
miles from home, owned by an old woman whom I used to think the oldest
person in the world as she hobbled about supporting herself with two
sticks, bent nearly double, with her half-blind, colourless eyes
always fixed on the ground. But she had granddaughters living with her
who were not bad-looking: the eldest, Antonia, a big loud-voiced young
woman, known as the "white mare" on account of the whiteness of her
skin and large size, and three others. It was not strange that cattle-
branding at this estancia brought all the men and youths for leagues
around to do a service to the venerable Dona Lucia del Ombu. That was
what she was called, because there was a solitary grand old ombu tree
growing about a hundred yards from the house - a well-known landmark in
the district. There were also half a dozen weeping willows close to
the house, but no plantation, no garden, and no ditch or enclosure of
any kind. The old mud-built rancho, thatched with rushes, stood on the
level naked plain; it was one of the old decayed establishments, and
the cattle were not many, so that by midday the work was done and the
men, numbering about forty or fifty, trooped to the house to be
entertained at dinner.
As the day was hot and the indoor accommodation insufficient, the
tables were in the shade of the willows, and there we had our feast of
roast and boiled meat, with bread and wine and big dishes of _aros
con leche_ - rice boiled in milk with sugar and cinnamon. Next to
cummin-seed cinnamon is the spice best loved of the gaucho: he will
ride long leagues to get it.
The dinner over and tables cleared, the men and youths disposed
themselves on the benches and chairs and on their spread ponchos on
the ground, and started smoking and conversing. A guitar was produced,
and Barboza being present, surrounded as usual by a crowd of his
particular friends or parasites, all eagerly listening to his talk and
applauding his sallies with bursts of laughter, he was naturally first
asked to sing. The accompanist in this case was Goyo Montes, a little
thick-set gaucho with round staring blue eyes set in a round pinky-
brown face, and the tune agreed on was one known as _La Lechera_ - the
Milkmaid.
Then, while the instrument was being tuned and Barboza began to sway
his body about, and talking ceased, a gaucho named Marcos but usually
called _El Rengo_ on account of his lameness, pushed himself into the
crowd surrounding the great man and seated himself on a table and put
his foot of his lame leg on the bench below.
El Rengo was a strange being, a man with remarkably fine aquiline
features, piercing black eyes, and long black hair. As a youth he had
distinguished himself among his fellow-gauchos by his daring feats of
horsemanship, mad adventures, and fights; then he met with the
accident which lamed him for life and at the same time saved him from
the army; when, at a cattle-parting, he was thrown from his horse and
gored by a furious bull, the animal's horn having been driven deep
into his thigh. From that time Marcos was a man of peace and was liked
and respected by every one as a good neighbour and a good fellow. He
was also admired for the peculiarly amusing way of talking he had,
when in the proper mood, which was usually when he was a little
exhilarated by drink. His eyes would sparkle and his face light up,
and he would set his listeners laughing at the queer way in which he
would play with his subject; but there was always some mockery and
bitterness in it which served to show that something of the dangerous
spirit of his youth still survived in him.
