At this very spot a few seasons before one leaped upon an old
mare with foal and broke her neck as she crashed through the fence and
rolled down the hill. Three years later I rode the young horse. As we
passed the tree from which it is thought the lion sprang, where the
broken fence was still unmended, my colt jumped and reared, the memory
of his fright was still vivid in his mind. Up the trail a half mile
beyond we saw other fresh lion tracks. At night we camped on the ridge
with our dogs in hope that our feline friend would come again.
It was too late to hunt that evening, so we turned in. Nothing happened
save that in the middle of the night I was roused by the whine of our
dogs, and looking up in the face of the pale moon, I saw two deer go
bounding past, silhouetted like graceful phantoms across the silvered
sky. They swept across the lunar disc and melted into blackness over
the dark horizon.
No sound followed them, and having appeased the fretful hounds, we
returned to sleep. In the morning, up the trail, there were his tracks;
too wise to cross the human scent, and knowing that there are more deer
in the brush, he had turned upon his course and let his quarry slip.
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