It was a warm afternoon in late January when our troop stopped to make camp. The wind swiftly blew, caressing the hillside as it moved through the open land. I sat in the shade of a tree as I watched the men skirmish with each other while they taught José their style of fighting. “Why don’t you come here and learn to fight with us?” José called over to me.

The other men’s eyes grew wide as they looked from him to me. “Teach me to fight like a gaucho?” I asked, getting up and bringing my poncho with me. I picked up a nearby facón, testing its weight in my hands. “The thing you need to understand is that this is the only way a gaucho resolves a fight.”

A slim gaucho reluctantly stepped up to be my sparring partner. I swung my poncho around my forearm, using it as a shield as I countered the gaucho’s weak attack. I lifted my arm, creating an opening toward his soft belly, stabbing my facón at his kidney. I stopped just short of drawing blood. He was surprised and attacked again with more ferocity. I swung the tail of my poncho, whipping him in the face. He turned his head, exposing his neck, which I slashed at. “When you step back with your back foot, make sure your front foot follows,” I instructed the gaucho. “Your movements must always be synchronized. Like a dance.”

He smiled and nodded, standing aside to catch his breath. I handed the facón to a waiting gaucho so that they could continue training.

“You’re pretty good,” José said.

“You seem surprised.”

He paused, assessing me. “I shouldn’t be, should I?”

“No.” I smiled, looking back over the men training. “My father taught me. He said if I was going to be a gaucho, I needed to learn to defend myself like one.”

“So is the facón your weapon?”

“I’m pretty good with a bola.” I looked at him from the corner of my eye; he had a lopsided smile as he intently watched me. I pointed to the two gauchos in hand-to-hand combat in front of us with their spurs. “Every tool that a gaucho has can be used as a weapon. Spurs are short knives; ponchos, shields. For us, nothing is wasted.”

The sound of hooves approaching made us stop. A small regiment came to a halt before us. The man at the front of the group jumped off his horse. Removing his hat, he revealed a neatly trimmed beard that made his chiseled face look dignified and charming.

“Senhor Garibaldi, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am General Terceira and I come with orders from General Canabarro.” The general nodded in my direction. “It may be a good idea to dismiss your woman.”

José patted the seat next to him. “My wife stays.”

Rossetti and I snapped our heads toward José. Wife?

“Very well.” General Terceira cleared his throat and explained that he hailed from the western edge of Rio Grande do Sul. Our regiment was to combine with his before reuniting with General Canabarro’s forces in the south at Vacaria to relieve them from Imperial control.”