Evening fell as we encountered a small herd. St. Jago, one of my fellow travelers, swiftly singled out a robust cow. He flung his bolas, aiming for her legs, but the attempt missed entanglement. In pursuit, while on horseback, he unwound his lazo and, after a strenuous chase, successfully caught her by the horns. Meanwhile, another Gaucho had gone on with the spare horses, leaving St. Jago momentarily at a disadvantage. He cleverly used the terrain to his advantage, managing the enraged beast until she stood still. My horse, trained to do so, would nudge her forward when she charged. However, on flat ground, one man facing a terrified beast poses a challenge. This difficulty was lessened by the horse's inherent trait; once riderless, it would maintain tension in the lazo, allowing it to move in sync with the animal. Yet, this young horse struggled, succumbing to the cow's resistance. Despite this, St. Jago displayed remarkable agility, avoiding the beast's charges until he finally reached the main tendon in her hind leg. With a precise thrust of his knife into her spinal marrow, the cow fell as if struck by lightning. St. Jago then skillfully carved pieces of flesh, skin intact, but boneless, perfect for our journey. We continued to our sleeping site, where we feasted on "carne con cuero," a dish superior to common beef, akin to the savoriness of venison over mutton. A large circular piece of meat, roasted on the embers with the hide turned downwards, maintained its juices, forming a saucer-like shape to prevent any loss. Had any deserving alderman shared our meal that night, the culinary delight of "carne con cuero" would have likely become the talk of London.
