THE PUMA AND THE JAGUAR—TWO FIERCE ENEMIES—A STRANGE
ATTACHMENT—A NIGHT ON THE PAMPAS—THE STORY OF MALDONADA.
But the greatest enemy that either the prairie-dog or the bizcacha has to
contend with, is not the fox or the rattlesnake, but the dreaded puma or
cougar, next to the jaguar the largest and most formidable animal of the
cat tribe that lives on the American continent. It seems strange that a
creature which kills horses and cows, as well as the wild huanaco, the
tapir, deer, and American ostrich, should think of anything so small as a
bizcacha or prairie-dog, but the puma will kill not only these, but even
small birds, and the burrowing armadillo if he happens to come across
it. More curious still, the dreaded jaguar, which one might have thought
secure from every enemy except man, is attacked and vanquished by the
puma. I have not heard of its being killed by him, indeed, nor should I
think that possible, since if the two came to a grapple the jaguar would
certainly be the stronger. What the puma does is to leap on the jaguar’s
back, claw him savagely, and then spring off again, before the tormented
beast has had time to do anything—for the puma is ever so much quicker
and more active, though not so strong as the jaguar.
Why the puma should act thus I cannot tell, but both the Indians and the
half-breed Gauchos of the pampas tell the same story, and as jaguars are
often killed that have their backs all over claw-marks, I suppose it must
be true—unless they have done it to one another. This does, indeed, seem
possible, and if it were only the male jaguars that were found with their
backs in this state I should look upon it as the explanation. But there
is no distinction of this sort, as far as I know, so I think it must be
pumas, for a male jaguar would not fight with a female one, nor would the
females be likely to fight together. The curious thing is that in that
part of America where there are no jaguars, but where the grizzly bear is
found, the puma is said to attack this huge and powerful beast—so that
we have the same kind of story told by quite different people, separated
from each other by an immense tract of country. Just as with the jaguar,
the puma is supposed always to come off victorious in his encounters with
the grizzly, and it is even said that the latter is sometimes killed by
him. I must confess, however, that I find this very difficult to believe.
The puma is immensely agile, and, like others of the cat tribe, very
muscular in proportion to its size. But a full-grown grizzly bear is
twice as large and twice as heavy as itself, and its strength must be in
proportion. How, then, does the slight-built puma overpower and kill so
ponderous an animal, clad in a shaggy coat of fur? Once seized by the
grizzly I think it would have no chance, but it is possible, perhaps,
that by springing on its back and wrenching its head suddenly round, it
might be able to dislocate the neck, as it does that of a horse. That,
indeed, is the puma’s usual method of attack, and we must remember that,
strength for strength, a horse of any size is almost as much its superior
as the grizzly bear itself. So perhaps, after all, the thing is not
quite so unlikely as it, at first sight, appears. The wonderful thing is
that the puma should attack such animals as bears and jaguars, instead
of confining itself to the more timid and peaceable creatures of the
browsing kind, as do most beasts of prey.
[Illustration: A BEAR BESET BY WILD SWINE.
A wild pig, which had been seized by a bear, rescued by its comrades.]
But if this be wonderful, what are we to say of another trait or quality,
in which this strange creature seems to stand alone amongst wild animals.
It almost reads like a fable, but it really does seem to be true that
the puma, fierce as he is, has yet a strange affection for mankind, and
that not only will he not attack a man himself, but will even prevent
other animals from doing so. There is a story told by the Gauchos of
a man who, whilst hunting on the pampas, had his leg broken by a fall
from his horse, and was left out all night. During the whole time he was
guarded, as it seemed, by a puma, who, when a jaguar drew near to attack
him, as he thought, sprang upon it, and prevented it from doing so. All
through the night the puma and jaguar fought about the man, sometimes so
near that he could see their shadowy forms through the darkness, whilst
at other times their presence and actions were betrayed only by the
fierce sounds which issued from them. These, on the part of the jaguar,
consisted of growls and roars, but the puma has a peculiar yelling cry
which, in itself, is still more terrible, and comes full of fear to all
who do not know its habits. For this dreadful sound the Gaucho kept
listening, and when it rang out, loud and shrill, he hailed it as an
assurance that the puma was victorious, or, at least, holding its own,
and took courage accordingly. But when it sank, or seemed choked and
muffled, then his heart sank with it, and nervously grasping his long,
curved knife—the only weapon that remained to him—he sat each moment
expecting the jaguar’s spring, till once more that thrilling cry—raised
as in triumph—cheered his spirits, filling him with hope. The sweetest
music—from his wife’s or children’s lips perhaps—had never fallen so
sweetly on his ears as did that savage sound. So much, in this world, are
we the creatures of circumstance, and so much are things what they mean
for us! This dreadful alternation of hope and fear, or rather of fear
relieved by hope, or weighted with despair, continued till the dawn of
morning, when both the beasts disappeared, the combat apparently having
had no decisive issue. The man was confident that he owed his life to the
puma, which, as he further related, had appeared first upon the scene,
and sat for some time near him, though without appearing to notice him.
It was not till after midnight that he first saw the jaguar, which was
crouching only a little way off, but with its head turned in the opposite
direction. Doubtless it was watching the puma, for shortly afterwards,
when it had crawled farther off and had become invisible, the dreadful
sounds of strife rose suddenly out of the darkness of the night.
There can be little doubt, I think, that the jaguar would have seized
and devoured the Gaucho had it not been for the puma; but it does not,
therefore, follow that the puma, knowingly and of set purpose, protected
the man. As its enemy, he would have been likely to attack the jaguar in
any case, and if we suppose the latter to have kept all night near the
man, because it wished to attack him, this would account for the fighting
having been always near him, too, instead of the scene of it having
gradually shifted; for the puma would have stayed where the jaguar was,
in order to fight with it. We have, of course, only the Gaucho’s word for
the truth of his story; but I think myself that if he had been romancing
he would have made up a very different one, containing much more varied
incidents, wherein he himself would have played a much more considerable
part. It looks to me like a true tale, but, as I say, it does not quite
prove that the puma stayed by the man all night, in order to take care
of him. His strange love of man might have brought him there at first,
and then all the rest would have followed as it did. That for some reason
or other, perhaps to do with his scent—we must remember how fond cats
are of valerian—the puma really does like man, and becomes quite mild in
his presence, can hardly,[5] I think, be doubted. All the Gauchos and
all the Indians—the two races of men that come most in contact with the
animal—assert that such is the case, and the very name which the Gauchos
give to the puma is “El amigo del hombre” (“the friend of man”). They say
that not only will it never attack man, but that, if attacked by him, it
will allow itself to be slaughtered without making any resistance. Why
should they assert things so unlikely in themselves, and which are in
such contrast with the known character of the puma where other animals
are concerned, and especially in regard to the jaguar, if they were
not the actual truth? The Spaniards, when they first came to America,
were not prepared for anything of the sort, and if they had wished to
invent they would have been much more likely to have invented tales of
the puma’s fierceness, and of their own skill and courage in hunting
it. Perhaps they did at first, but gradually the truth became manifest,
so that such stories no longer “went down,” as we say. Instances of the
puma’s strange attachment to mankind became more and more numerous, until
at last the matter ceased even to excite their wonder, as the strangest
things do when once they have become familiar. Now, in South America at
least, the fact is notorious, and notoriety, here as elsewhere, ought, I
think, to be accepted as proof. Moreover, nobody has the slightest fear
of the puma. There is no record of men having been seized by it, as they
often are, or, at least, as they often used to be, by the jaguar, and
even if a little girl or boy happens to be out on a dark night, nobody
is alarmed, if only pumas are supposed to be about. When the Gaucho we
have been reading about told his strange story, nobody disbelieved him,
or even thought it was anything very remarkable. If, however, it had
been told in early colonial days, before the Spaniards had left a race of
half-breed descendants, whose life is always bringing them into contact
with wild animals, and who are familiar with all their ways, in that case
it would either have been discredited or else put down to a miracle.
Whether the story of Maldonada, as told by the old Spanish chronicler,
Rui Diaz de Guzman, is true or false, and whether, if true, it is in the
nature of a miracle or not, I will let my readers decide: but here it is.
In the early days of the Spanish conquest, Buenos Ayres, which is now
a large and beautiful city, the capital of the Argentine Republic, was
only a small town, with a fort and some soldiers to guard it, and in
the year 1536 it was besieged by the Indians, so that, the provisions
being exhausted, a terrible famine set in. Eighteen hundred people died
of starvation, and the putrefying smell of their bodies, which were
disposed of hastily in shallow trenches, only just outside the town,
caused beasts to assemble from the surrounding country, so that the risk
of being devoured by them was added to that of death at the hands of the
Indians, for any who might venture beyond the palisades. Still, as the
allowance of flour on which the survivors were living had shrunk to six
ounces a day, whilst the flour itself had become almost putrid, there
were many who were content to run both these risks for the chance of
finding anything, either living or dead, which hunger might enable them
to eat, in the woods surrounding the town. Amongst these was a young
and beautiful woman named Maldonada, who, losing her way, and wandering
amongst the woods, was at last taken by the Indians, and received by
them into their tribe. A few months afterwards, however, the governor
of the town, a man named Ruiz, succeeded in ransoming her, and she was
brought back.
[Illustration: A GALLANT WILD ANIMAL.
For two whole nights an enormous puma defended the girl from the attacks
of countless wild beasts.]
Little good, however, was intended to Maldonada by this act. Upon her
arrival Ruiz accused her of having wished to betray the town to the
Indians, and, in expiation of this imaginary crime, ordered her to be
taken again to the forest, tied to a tree, and left either to starve, or
be devoured by any ravenous beast that might see her. The cruel command
was punctually obeyed, and Maldonada, bound and helpless, was left to
her terrible fate. At the end of two days, the Governor, wishing to
have his ears gratified with an assurance of her death, sent a body of
soldiers to seek for her remains. They found Maldonada herself, alive
and uninjured, and the story she told was the same as that of the Gaucho
left helpless, all night, on the pampas. An enormous puma, she said, had
appeared soon after sunset, on the day that she had been left to die,
and during the whole of that night and the following one, had guarded
her against the assaults of numberless savage beasts that had raged
around. God, she thought, had sent the puma to protect her, knowing her
innocence; and this was the view that the soldiers, sent to find her,
took too, as did also the townspeople, and, at last, the Governor, Ruiz,
himself. Maldonada, on being taken back, was proclaimed innocent, and
the war with the Indians being shortly brought to a close, she lived
the rest of her life in happiness and prosperity. Whether she thought
kindly of pumas ever afterwards, and always wore a mantle made of their
skins in recognition of the service one had done her, I do not know; but
were this recorded of her, I should see no reason to doubt the truth
of the statement. The old chronicler who tells the story says that he
knew Maldonada; but, instead of telling us anything more about her, he
contents himself with making an obvious, poor pun upon her name. From
this we may, perhaps, infer that, except when helped by a puma, she was
not a very interesting person.