After visiting Rio de Janeiro, we were sent to the River Plate; there we remained nearly a year, during which time several adventures which I will relate occurred, both concerning my duties and my amusements.

I must tell my readers that from earliest boyhood I had a passionate love for shooting; and, through the kindness of my commanding officer while at Monte Video, I was allowed constantly to indulge in sport.

On one occasion my captain, who was a keen sportsman, took me with him out shooting.  We had a famous day’s sport, filled our game bags with partridges, ducks, and snipe, and were returning home on horseback when a solitary horseman, a nasty-looking fellow, armed to the teeth, rode up to us.  As I knew a little Spanish we began to talk about shooting, &c. &c.; then he asked me to shoot a bird for him (the reason why he did this will be seen immediately).  I didn’t like the cut of his jib, so rather snubbed him.  However, he continued to ride on with us, to within half a mile of where our boat was waiting to take us on board.  I must explain our relative positions as we rode along.  The captain was on my left, I next to him, and the man was on my right, riding very near to me.  All of a sudden he exclaimed in Spanish, ‘Now is the time or never,’ threw his right leg over the pommel of his saddle, slipped on to the ground, drew his knife, dashed at me, and after snatching my gun from my hand, stuck his knife (as he thought) into me.  Then he rushed towards the captain, pulling the trigger of my gun, and pointing straight at the latter’s head; the gun was not loaded, having only the old percussion caps on. (Now I saw why he wanted me to fire, so that he might know whether my gun was loaded; but the old caps evidently deceived him.)

All this was the work of a very few seconds.  Now what was my chief doing?  Seeing a row going on, he was dismounting; in fact, was half-way off his horse, only one foot in the stirrup, when the man made the rush at him.  Finding me stuck to my saddle (for the ruffian’s knife had gone through my coat and pinned me), and the fellow snapping my gun, which was pointed at him, he as coolly as possible put his gun over his horse’s shoulder and shot the would-be murderer dead on the spot.  Then turning to me he said quite calmly, ’I call you to witness that that man intended to murder me.’  How differently all would have ended had my gun been loaded!  The villain would have shot my chief, taken both guns, and galloped off, leaving me ignominiously stuck to my saddle.

The audacity of this one man attacking us two armed sportsmen showed the immense confidence these prairie people feel in themselves, especially in their superior horsemanship.  However, the fellow caught a Tartar on this occasion.

As for me, the knife had gone, as I said, through my loose shooting jacket just below the waist, through the upper part of my trousers, and so into the saddle, without even touching my skin.  I have kept the knife in memory of my lucky escape.