A Jaguar-Hunt on the Taquary 97 



plodded wearily through the water; on every side 

 stretched the marsh, vast, lonely, desolate in the gray 

 of the half-light. We overtook the ox-carts. The cattle 

 strained in the yokes; the drivers wading alongside 

 cracked their whips and uttered strange cries; the carts 

 rocked and swayed as the huge wheels churned through 

 the mud and water. As the last light faded we reached 

 the small patches of dry land at the landing, where the 

 flat-bottomed side-wheel steamboat was moored to the 

 bank. The tired horses and oxen were turned loose to 

 graze. Water stood in the corrals, but the open shed 

 was on dry ground. Under it the half-clad, wild-looking 

 ox-drivers and horse-herders slung their hammocks ; and 

 close by they lit a fire and roasted, or scorched, slabs and 

 legs of mutton, spitted on sticks and propped above the 

 smouldering flame. 



Next morning, with real regret, we waved good-by 

 to our dusky attendants, as they stood on the bank, 

 grouped around a little fire, beside the big, empty ox- 

 carts. A dozen miles down-stream a rowboat fitted for 

 a spritsail put off from the bank. The owner, a coun- 

 tr)mian from a small ranch, asked for a tow to Corumba, 

 which we gave. He had with him in the boat his comely 

 brown wife — who was smoking a very large cigar — their 

 two children, a young man, and a couple of trunks and 

 various other belongings. On Christmas eve we reached 

 Corumba, and rejoined the other members of the ex- 

 pedition. 



