Tierra del Fuego by Francisco Coloane Read Free Book Online

picked it up and strapped it by its feet to the saddle.
    â€œNone of us ever know who we’re working for!” he said to the vultures, which were looking at him in helpless rage, waddling up and down and shaking their erect crests.
    He got back on his horse, and set off at a weary trot in a southerly direction, while the flock disappeared northward, like a piece of the Fuegian pampa fleeing the imminent ­cruelty of winter.

ON THE HORSE OF DAWN
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    To Professor Humberto Fuenzalida
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    I t passed like a meteor, something dark and formless swaying below its belly, and only stopped when it realized it was inside the corral.
    We left our lunch in the ranch’s small canteen and ran to see what was happening. Fortunately, all that the horse had beneath its belly were saddle pads and a few sheepskin blankets that had slipped down the animal’s flanks in its mad dash. The reins, too, had fallen beneath the hooves, and the foam-flecked sweat on the chestnut’s body indicated that it had galloped a long distance.
    â€œWho was riding this horse?” Clifton, the assistant manager, asked.
    â€œThe bookkeeper went out on him this morning,” Charlie, the head stockman, replied.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œPuerto Consuelo on Ultima Esperanza Sound, I think he said.”
    â€œIsn’t this Cabeza Rota?” Clifton asked, looking closely at the steaming chestnut.
    â€œThat’s right,” Charlie replied.
    â€œAnd why did you give the bookkeeper this horse?”
    â€œThere wasn’t another one . . . The herd had already left for the field when he came looking for a horse . . . I wasn’t going to round them up again just for him.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you pass him your duty horse and keep this one for yourself?”
    â€œWe each have our herd . . . I don’t like just anyone to break up mine.”
    â€œMr. Handler isn’t just anyone, he’s the bookkeeper. And besides, you shouldn’t have given him this horse, knowing what happened the last time you tried to break it . . . Anyway, let’s not waste any more time. Go now! Find out what happened to the bookkeeper!”
    â€œNo, I’ll go!” I cut in.
    I quickly went and ate a few chops, changed the chestnut for another horse provided by one of the foremen, plus a second horse tied to the first, and set off to find Alfredo Handler, the bookkeeper of the Las Charitas ranch at the southeast end of Lake Toro, in the Patagonian region of Ultima Esperanza.
    As I rode, I couldn’t help thinking how wrong it had been to give Handler, who wasn’t much of a rider, an animal like Cabeza Rota, a product of Charlie’s last horse-breaking session. He had been a good breaker once, but he was getting old, his fractured collarbones and legs had not set well, and he used the handle of the whip more than the leather to break horses now. That was how the chestnut had gotten its name—Cabeza Rota, Broken Head—its skull having been broken with the butt of Charlie’s whip when he couldn’t master it with his riding. But the worst of it was that the horse had acquired the dangerous habit of rearing up on its hind legs and throwing itself backwards to crush its rider.
    Charlie had turned nasty, not only toward the animals but also toward his fellow men. Every time someone was thrown by a horse, he smiled wickedly, and he made no secret of the satisfaction he felt in giving the worst animal to the most inexperienced stockman.
    That was why I’d volunteered to go look for the bookkeeper. I didn’t trust Charlie—he was quite capable of taking along the same horse and getting Handler to mount it, just for the pleasure of seeing him fall off again.
    Besides, I respected Handler. He was far too cultured and delicate for the rough environment of Patagonia. I had known him in his good days, when he had come to the Cerro Guido ranch to work as an assistant