1856.] The Bloodhounds. 567 



Clji^ SUni jjniiniis. 



The gallant officer had been taken prisoner by the Mexicans, with 

 some privates in the daring band he commanded. All had escaped, 

 and a pack of Mexican bloodhounds were laid upon their trail. The 

 fugitives had gained a high, small platform in a precipice, and, — 

 writes this truly adventurous author : 



"We stood for some moments gathering breath and nerving our- 

 selves for the desperate struggle. I could not help looking over the 

 precipice. It was a fearful sight. 



In a vertical line, two hundred feet below, the stream came rush- 

 ing through the canyon, broke upon a bed of sharp, jagged rocks, and 

 then glided on in seething, snow-white foam. There was no object 

 between the eye and the water; no jutting ledge, not even a tree to 

 break the fall — nothing but the spiky boulders below, and the foam- 

 ing torrent that washed them. 



It was some minutes before our unnatural enemies made their ap- 

 pearance, but every howl sounded nearer and nearer. Our trail was 

 warm, and we knew they were scenting it on the run. At length 

 the bushes crackled, and we could see their white breasts gleaming 

 through the leaves. A few more springs, and the foremost blood- 

 hound bounded out upon the bank, and throwing open his broad 

 jaws, uttered a hideous growl. His comrades now dashed out from 

 the thicket, and joining in a chorus of disappointment, scattered 

 upon the stones. 



An old dog, scarred and cunning, kept along the bank until he 

 had reached the top of the canyon. This was where we had made our 

 crossing. Here the hound entered the channel, and, springing from 

 rock to rock, reached the point where we had dragged ourselves out 

 of the water. A short yelp announced to his comrades that he had 

 lifted the scent, and they all threw up their noses and came gallop- 

 ing down. There was a swift current between two boulders of basalt. 

 We had leaped this. The old dog reached it, and stood straining 

 upon a spring, when Lincoln — a celebrated hunter and an Irishman 

 — fired, and the hound, with a short ' wough,' dropped in upon his 

 head and was carried off like a flash! 



' That counts one the less to pitch over,' said the hunter, reload- 

 ing his true rifle. 



