Mine buried itself in
the lion's shoulder. Young's hit him in the nose.
He reared and struck at this latter shaft, then, not dislodging it,
began swaying back and forth while with both front paws he fought the
arrow.
While he thrashed about thus in the tree top, we nocked two more arrows
and shot. We both missed the brute. Young's flew off into the next
state, and if you ever go up into Tuolumne County, you will find mine
buried deep in the heart of an oak.
Just as we nocked a third arrow, he freed himself from the offending
shaft in his muzzle, raised his fore-paws upon a limb and prepared to
leap. In that movement he bared the white hair of his throat and chest,
and like a flash, two keen arrows were driven through his heart area.
[Illustration: ARTHUR YOUNG AND HIS COUGAR]
[Illustration: OUR FIRST MOUNTAIN LION]
[Illustration: WE PACK THE PANTHER TO CAMP]
As they struck and disappeared from sight, he leaped. Like a flying
squirrel, he soared over our heads. Full seventy-five feet he cleared
in one mighty outward, downward bound. I saw his body glint across the
rising sun, swoop in a wonderful curve and land in a sheltering bush.
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