replied that he had killed only one and had sworn never to kill another.
He said that while out one day with another gaucho looking for cattle a
puma was found. It sat up with its back against a stone, and did not
move even when his companion threw the noose of his lasso over its neck.
My informant then dismounted, and, drawing his knife, advanced to kill
it: still the puma made no attempt to free itself from the lasso, but it
seemed to know, he said, what was coming, for it began to tremble, the
tears ran from its eyes, and it whined in the most pitiful manner. He
killed it as it sat there unresisting before him, but after
accomplishing the deed felt that he had committed a murder. It was the
only thing ho had ever done in his life, he added, which filled him with
remorse when he remembered it. This I thought a rather startling
declaration, as I knew that he had killed several individuals of his own
species in duels, fought with knives, in the fashion of the gauchos.

All who have killed or witnessed the killing of the puma--and I have
questioned scores of hunters on this point--agree that it resigns itself
in this unresisting, pathetic manner to death at the hands of man.
Claudio Gay, in his _Natural History of Chili,_ says, "When attacked by
man its energy and daring at once forsake it, and it becomes a weak,
inoffensive animal, and trembling, and uttering piteous moans, and
shedding abundant tears, it seems to implore compassion from a generous
enemy." The enemy is not often generous; but many gauchos have assured
me, when speaking on this subject, that although they kill the puma
readily to protect their domestic animals, they consider it an evil
thing to take its life in desert places, where it is man's only friend
among the wild animals.

When the hunter is accompanied by dogs, then the puma, instead of
drooping and shedding tears, is roused to a sublime rage: its hair