Suddenly the leader sniffed at a fallen tree where, doubtless, the cat
had perched, then with a ringing bay, the hound clamped his tail close
to his rump and left in a streak of yellow light. The rest of the pack
leaped into full cry.
We were off on a hot track. Oh, for the wings of a bird! Trained as
Young and I were to desperate running, this game taxed us to the
utmost. First we climbed the knoll, deep in ferns and mountain misery,
then we dashed over the crest, tore through manzanita brush, thickets
of young cedar and buckthorn, over ledges of lava rock, down deep
declivities, among giant oaks, cedars, and pines. As we ran we grasped
our ready strung bows in one hand and the flapping quivers in the
other.
You would not think that at this time we could take note of the
fragrant shrubs and pine needles beneath our feet, but I smelled them
as we passed in flight, and they revived me to renewed energy. On we
rushed, only to lose the sound of the dogs. Then we listened and caught
it down the hill below us. Again we hurdled barriers of brush, took
long sliding leaps down the treacherous shale and ran breathless to the
shade of a great oak.
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