"
"He scared away the coyotes."
"Youngster, even a silver-tip--thet's a grizzly bear--will make tracks away
from a cougar. I lent my pack of hounds to a pard over near Springer. If I
had them we'd put thet cougar up a tree in no time."
"Are there many lions--cougars here?"
"Only a few. Thet's why there's plenty of deer. Other game is plentiful,
too. Foxes, wolves, an', up in the mountains, bears are thick."
"Then I may get to see one--get a shot at one?"
"Wal, I reckon."
From that time I trod on air. I found myself wishing for my brother Hal. I
became reconciled to the loss of mustang and outfit. For a moment I almost
forgot Dick and Buell. Forestry seemed less important than hunting. I had
read a thousand books about old hunters and trappers, and here I was in a
wild mountain canyon with a hunter who might have stepped out of one of my
dreams. So I trudged along beside him, asking a question now and then, and
listening always. He certainly knew what would interest me. There was
scarcely a thing he said that I would ever forget. After a while, however,
the trail became so steep and rough that I, at least, had no breath to
spare for talking. We climbed and climbed. The canyon had become a narrow,
rocky cleft. Huge stones blocked the way. A ragged growth of underbrush
fringed the stream.
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