The Gauchos of the Patagonian Pampas were famous for that
feat of horsemanship. I asked Joe Isbel what he thought of such
riding. And he said: "Wal, I can ride a wild steer bare-back,
but excoose me from tacklin' a buckin' bronch without saddle an'
stirrups." This coming from the acknowledged champion horseman of the
southwest was assuredly significant.
At five o'clock we came to the end of the road. It led to a forest
glade, overlooking the stream we had followed, and that was as far as
our wagon could go. The glade shone red with sumach, and surrounded
by tall pines, with a rocky and shady glen below, it appeared a
delightful place to camp. As I was about to unsaddle my horses I heard
the cluck-cluck of turkeys. Pulling out my borrowed rifle, and calling
Romer, I ran to the edge of the glade. The shady, swift stream ran
fifty feet or so below me. Across it I saw into the woods where shade
and gray rocks and colored brush mingled. Again I heard the turkeys
cluck. "Look hard, son," I whispered. "They're close." R.C. came
slipping along below us, with his rifle ready. Suddenly Romer
stiffened, then pointed. "There! Dad!--There!" I saw two gobblers wade
into the brook not more than a hundred and fifty feet away. Drawing
down with fine aim I fired. The bullet splashed water all over the
turkeys. One with loud whirr of wings flew away.
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