Out there, there's no mercy nor any kind of hope.
The indian's opinion is that it's always right to kill -
since whenever he's not drinking blood* he likes watching it run out.
Cruz was for fighting to the death and asked me to join with him.
But I said, "Let's hold out till the fire's near enough to burn..."
You've less to fear from danger the more of it you've known.
The greater a danger is the more cautious you need to be;
you've more chance of surviving, always, by treading carefully -
because cautiousness and courage have no call to disagree.
At last an Interpreter came up seeming to bring a reprieve.
He told us "Your lives are spared by order of one of our chiefs.
He sends me to tell you the reason is that we have a raid on hand.
"He has told the others that you remain as hostages,
so in case any of them fall alive into the Christians' hands
they'll ransom their brothers with you two fugitives."
They went back to their council to discuss all their alliances
or their massacres, maybe and it happened as I'll describe.
They made a circle on horseback leaning on their spears.
An old indian goes to the centre and starts jabbering in there -
Lord knows what he's telling them to do, but the whole gathering
listened to him closely for no less than three hours.
Finally he howled three times and another dance starts up;
showing off his strength and skill giving tests of horsemanship,
racing his horse to a skidding halt* and whirling his spear round his head.
Then he goes down the line of indians stopping before each one
shouting threats into his face -- and raving, the old fiend
gives a yell each time as he brandishes the cane-shaft of his spear.
The whole place bursts into an uproar uglier than war itself...
In the thick of a cloud of dust it turned into a confusion
of horses and indians and spears and terrifying howls.
It's like a dance of wild animals as I'd imagine it.
It was a colossal whirlwind the screams curdled your blood --
till, after two hours of it the hurricane died down.
At night, they formed into a ring and put us in the middle of it,
and to let us know they wanted to give us no room for hope
they ranged us round about with eight or ten rows of warriors.
There they stayed on the alert guarding us relentlessly.
When it looked as if they were snoring -- Huinca!* one of them would shout --
and Huinca Huinca they echoed all the way down the line.
Indians are great ones for sleeping, though and they sleep very soundly too.
No one can beat them for snoring -- and their life's so unconcerned
they'd snore stretched out at their ease if the world turned upside down.
They found out all they could from us so as to prepare themselves,
because it's always to their advantage to know what troops there are around --
who they are and who's in command of them and what horses and arms they hold.
Each time we answered, one of them gives a cry --
and then, one after the other -- savage brutes that they are --
hundreds and hundreds of voices all echo the same sound.
And that cry, from just one of them, starting as a groan,
grows till it gets to be a howl coming from the entire horde –
and that's how they get the custom of bellowing the way they do.
NOTES to II.2
II.2.2] pampa wind] the pampero, a cold strong wind from the south-east, across the flat pampa grassland.
II.2.3] a criminal] fugitives from justice often went over the frontier to the indians. See notes at I.3.22 and I.13.9
II.2.9] spies... frontier guard] the indians were extremely suspicious of any contact with 'christians'. Mansilla's Excursion to the Ranquele (see note at I.3.22) shows the dangers of even a peaceable embassy.
II.2.19] to a skidding halt] literally, 'making skid-tracks' (rayando).
II.2.20] cane-shaft] tacuara. See note at I.9.32.
II.2.22] drinking blood] Indians commonly ate meat near-raw and drank blood straight from slaughtered animals.
II.2.24] Huinca! ('win-CA')] 'white man' – cry of alert.
3
So we found we were in for it with no backing out ...
But there's no good in giving up for lost however hard your fate,
nor in thinking about death but how to keep on with life, instead.
Your heart grows tougher, all the time no danger makes you scared.
Feeling the time was right for it we two swore there and then
to respect God's will only and no one else from God down.
Evil is a tree that grows and. that sprouts again when it's cut.
People suffer in countless ways whether they're shrewd or slow
the Earth is mother to us all but she gives us poisons too.
But any man of common sense bears his troubles quietly.
I find they're just as many whatever the path I choose -
Misfortune's born from no mother but she has plenty of children.
And if you're born to her inheritance you'll come to ruin, anywhere.
There's no way a man can avoid what Fate has decided on -
the reason a thistle pricks you is because it's made with thorns.
The destiny of a poor man is a tug-of-war that never stops,
and he lives on the watch like a carrion bird -- because trouble won't be satisfied
if the winds of misfortune come and tear the thatch off your roof.
But He who sends us troubles sends us comfort for them as well.
The light that comes down from heaven shines on the mightiest men -
but even the thinnest hair can make its shadow on the ground.
And even though you're suffering a life of bitterest pain,
never let your head hang down never, for whatever cause -
the poplar's the proudest tree of all and it's the one that always sighs.
The indians just spend their life either stealing, or stretched out flat.
The law of the spear's point is the only one they'll respect -
and what they're lacking in knowledge they make up with suspiciousness.
An indian with a kind heart would be a thing to put in a frame to stare at.
They're cruel with their captives and treat them horribly;
they're sharp-witted and resentful, they're bold and vindicative.
You can't ask them for a favour nor expect their confidence...
Acting from ignorance and out of pure mistrust
they kept us separated and guarded us jealously.
I couldn't get to have any talk with Cruz, at all.
They never gave us a chance -- they cared for us no more than for borrowed horses...
Something like two years, at least this separation lasted.
It would make too long a story to describe all our miseries.
All I'll tell you on this point is that only after two years
the chief did us the favour of letting us live together.
Cruz and I moved further off to the edge of some high-grass land,
and making the best of our life there on the endless desert plain,
we built a tent from two horse-hides the shape of two praying hands.
And there we took refuge to lead our pitiful life,
lightening the cruel capitivity with each other's company:
gloomy as a cemetery when the evening prayer-bell rings.
If a man chooses to roam the wilds he needs to be courageous:
first, when he's on the road, and second, when he's at rest –
because in that way of life if you give in, you perish.
When a calf's weak and hungry it'll suck from any cow:
a gaucho will understand this and know what I mean when I say
my friend and I went round hopelessly like stale bread that no one’ll buy.
We'd talk together side by side sheltering in our tent:
we were two old veterans fair game to the fleas -
useless as blankets chucked aside when the summer heat comes on.
Food's not easy to come by however hard you try for it.
You live as poor as the plague even straining all your wits –
and like the coypu,* always keeping by the water's edge.
A hunter grows skilful sharpening his wits that way:
the tasty armadillo -- any bird that pipes a note -
every creature that walks the earth ends up on the spit.
Because out there, the hunt spreads out right to the four winds.
Nothing escapes the round-up, and at the first glimpse of dawn
you're out combing the hillsides and valleys, and nests and holes.
If your life depends on hunting you'll go for any beast
whether it's got feathers or a shell -- because when hunger stirs
a man will get his teeth into any animal that moves.
In the holy heights above lives the master of us all
who teaches avery animal to find its own nourishment;
and he produces food for all who are born with intelligence.
And birds and beasts and fishes find their food in a thousand ways;
but it's interesting to observe the way a man deals in this -
he's the only one who knows how to cry and it's he that eats all the rest.
NOTE to II.3
II.3.19] coypu] or nutria, an otter-like river beast.
Before it's light, the indians start to stir up the plain
with the noise of their bellowing -- and sometimes, earlier still,
they'd set off on an invasion without us hearing anything.
First, they bury their clothes in holes, like armadillos,
and distrustful as always, with their manes of black hair,
riding bareback, they'd set off in their bare skins and not much else.
They use the best horse they can for going on a raid,
and as it's a weapon that can't fail they only take their spear
and several pairs of bolas fastened at their waist.
This way, they travel light and the horse won't tire...
For a raid, the spur they use is the point of a deer's horn
that's been well sharpened and tied on to their heel.
An indian who has a horse that's out of the ordinary
cares for it even in his sleep -- he works at that like a slave –
and he hires it to another warrior when they're going on a raid.
He'll go without food, to guard it, he'll even go without sleep;
it's the only thing they're not slack about -- at night, I'll swear to you,
he'll set his family round it in a circle, to keep it safe.
And this is why you'll have observed if you've had to do with them –
and if you haven't seen it remember it from now on –
that any pampa brave will be riding a horse of the very best.
The indians ride at a long trot, a lasting and steady pace.
They come on a fixed route and never wander off it ...
There's no animal escapes them even on the darkest night.
They move through the darkness in a curve spaced evenly;
they tighten the circle with great care, and when it gets light, they catch
ostriches, deer -- all the game that's got inside of it.
Their signal is a puff of smoke that goes up very high.
None of them fails to spot it with that eyesight they have –