I am preparing to mount my steed.
His name in Spanish meant, I concluded, “Staller.” Whenever we came to a raging glacial strea, he refused to cross, no matter how hard I kicked and yelled AIII! (Giddy-up), until Augustin, our gaucho, held up his whip and said something in Spanish. My horse then decided he had meant to cross all the time, and was simply contemplating the beauty of the landscape.
My wife’s horse had a named that sounded like Mordrador, which she suspected meant Biter. Hers was a talkative horse, and had a long conversation with her about how hard the life of a horse was on the Estancia Cristina.
Her horse also did something we had never seen before. We came to a stream, very near our rooms, and in the bed were extremely fresh puma tracks. Her horse took one look at the tracks and walked backward up the bank. I was not very happy myself, as I had been wandering alone around the estancia the previous day.
We were assured that only very few tourists had ever been eaten by pumas.