heat haze. Sometimes a truck smeared a dust-cloud along the horizon.
An Indian eyed the mountaineers and came over to pick a quarrel. He was very drunk. I sat back and watched the history of South America in miniature. The boy from Buenos Aires took his insults for half an hour, then he stood up, exploded and pointed the Indian back to his seat.
The Indian bowed his head and said: âSi, Señor. Si, Señor .â
The Indian settlements were strung out along the railway line on the principle that a drunk could always get home. The Indian came to his station and stumbled off the train clutching the last of his gin. Round the shacks broken bottles glinted in the watery sun. A boy in a yellow wind-cheater got off as well and helped the drunk walk. A dog, which had been lying in a doorway, ran up and licked him all over the face.
24
A LL ALONG the Southern Andes you hear stories of the bandoleros norteamericanos. I have taken this one from the second volume of Memorias de un Carrero Patagónico ( Memoirs of a Patagonian Carter ) by Asencio Abeijón:
In January 1908 [that is, a month after Butch Cassidy sold Cholila], a man riding over the Pampa de Castillo passed four horsemen with a string of hot-blooded horses. They were three gringos and a Chilean peon. They carried Winchesters with wooden handles. One of them was a woman dressed as a man. The traveller thought nothing of it. All gringos dressed in a strange fashion.
The same evening three horsemen stopped at the hotel of Cruz Abeijón at La Mata. There was no woman with them. They were two norteamericanos and a Chilean. They said they were looking for land. The shorter one was cheerful and talkative, by the name of Bob Evans. He spoke good Spanish and played with Abeijónâs children. The other was tall and fair and silent and sinister. His name was Willie Wilson.
After breakfast the gringos asked Abeijón the name of the best hotel in Comodoro Rivadavia. They left the Chilean in charge of the horses and rode the remaining three leagues into town. Comodoro, in the days before the oil boom, was a tiny place sandwiched between the cliff and the sea. Along its one street were the Salesian Church, the Hotel Vascongada and the Casa Lahusen, a general store which also served as a bank. The Americans drank with the leading citizens and pursued their enquiries about land. They stayed a week. One morning a policeman found them shooting on the beach. âJust practising,â they joked it off with the commissioner, Don Pedro Barros, who examined their Winchesters and handed them back smiling.
The Americans rode back to La Mata. Bob Evans distributed toffees among Abeijónâs children. They were off again in the morning, this time with the horses and the peon. Abeijón found that his telephone wire had been cut.
At one p.m. on February 3rd it was hot and windy and the people of Comodoro were at lunch. Wilson and Evans tied their spare horses to a hitching post on the edge of town and rode down to the Casa Lahusen. Evans stationed himself by the main door. Wilson and the peon made for the goods entrance. They dismounted and the Chilean held the two horses. A bystander heard the two men arguing, then saw the peon hopping about and dodging behind his horse, and Wilson shoot him through the hand. The bullet went up his arm and through his shoulder and he fell back among a pile of wool-bales.
Commissioner Barros heard the shot and found Wilson doubled up with one hand over his chest. âThe pig shot me,â he said. Barros told him to come to the station and explain. Wilson said âNOâ, and drew a gun, âhis blue eyes shining diabolicallyâ. Evans shouted âStop, you foollâ and spurred his horse between the two men, giving Barros a shove that toppled him among the wool-bales as well.
The Americans mounted, unhitched their spare horses, and trotted out of town. The whole business took five minutes. Barros ran to the
An Indian eyed the mountaineers and came over to pick a quarrel. He was very drunk. I sat back and watched the history of South America in miniature. The boy from Buenos Aires took his insults for half an hour, then he stood up, exploded and pointed the Indian back to his seat.
The Indian bowed his head and said: âSi, Señor. Si, Señor .â
The Indian settlements were strung out along the railway line on the principle that a drunk could always get home. The Indian came to his station and stumbled off the train clutching the last of his gin. Round the shacks broken bottles glinted in the watery sun. A boy in a yellow wind-cheater got off as well and helped the drunk walk. A dog, which had been lying in a doorway, ran up and licked him all over the face.
24
A LL ALONG the Southern Andes you hear stories of the bandoleros norteamericanos. I have taken this one from the second volume of Memorias de un Carrero Patagónico ( Memoirs of a Patagonian Carter ) by Asencio Abeijón:
In January 1908 [that is, a month after Butch Cassidy sold Cholila], a man riding over the Pampa de Castillo passed four horsemen with a string of hot-blooded horses. They were three gringos and a Chilean peon. They carried Winchesters with wooden handles. One of them was a woman dressed as a man. The traveller thought nothing of it. All gringos dressed in a strange fashion.
The same evening three horsemen stopped at the hotel of Cruz Abeijón at La Mata. There was no woman with them. They were two norteamericanos and a Chilean. They said they were looking for land. The shorter one was cheerful and talkative, by the name of Bob Evans. He spoke good Spanish and played with Abeijónâs children. The other was tall and fair and silent and sinister. His name was Willie Wilson.
After breakfast the gringos asked Abeijón the name of the best hotel in Comodoro Rivadavia. They left the Chilean in charge of the horses and rode the remaining three leagues into town. Comodoro, in the days before the oil boom, was a tiny place sandwiched between the cliff and the sea. Along its one street were the Salesian Church, the Hotel Vascongada and the Casa Lahusen, a general store which also served as a bank. The Americans drank with the leading citizens and pursued their enquiries about land. They stayed a week. One morning a policeman found them shooting on the beach. âJust practising,â they joked it off with the commissioner, Don Pedro Barros, who examined their Winchesters and handed them back smiling.
The Americans rode back to La Mata. Bob Evans distributed toffees among Abeijónâs children. They were off again in the morning, this time with the horses and the peon. Abeijón found that his telephone wire had been cut.
At one p.m. on February 3rd it was hot and windy and the people of Comodoro were at lunch. Wilson and Evans tied their spare horses to a hitching post on the edge of town and rode down to the Casa Lahusen. Evans stationed himself by the main door. Wilson and the peon made for the goods entrance. They dismounted and the Chilean held the two horses. A bystander heard the two men arguing, then saw the peon hopping about and dodging behind his horse, and Wilson shoot him through the hand. The bullet went up his arm and through his shoulder and he fell back among a pile of wool-bales.
Commissioner Barros heard the shot and found Wilson doubled up with one hand over his chest. âThe pig shot me,â he said. Barros told him to come to the station and explain. Wilson said âNOâ, and drew a gun, âhis blue eyes shining diabolicallyâ. Evans shouted âStop, you foollâ and spurred his horse between the two men, giving Barros a shove that toppled him among the wool-bales as well.
The Americans mounted, unhitched their spare horses, and trotted out of town. The whole business took five minutes. Barros ran to the
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