A Bear-Hunt in the Sierras 



they were called; but when the intruder was 

 shot, small sympathy accompanied him to the 

 grave, and the deep damnation of his taking 

 off, in more senses than one, served as a salu- 

 tary reminder to other gentlemen with discour- 

 teous tendencies to maraud. The consequence 

 of all this was that a big ranchman spoke of 

 his summer range with the same sense of pro- 

 prietorship and security of possession as of his 

 alfalfa field or pits of ensilage. 



We arrived at my friend's ranch in the even- 

 ing, and the next morning but one were in the 

 saddle and on our way — it having been ar- 

 ranged that the younger brother of my host 

 was to take his place upon the hunt. As we 

 were to arrive at the sheep-herders' camps on 

 the fourth day from the ranch, no elaborate 

 preparations were necessary; we took but a 

 single animal for the pack, besides the horses 

 we rode. A Mexican herder, Leonard, was 

 the third member of the party — cook, packer, 

 guide, general storehouse of information and 

 jest. The first night we camped in the foot 

 hills, in a grove of big-cone pines, curiously 

 enough in the exact place where, a fortnight 

 before, my friend Proctor and I had pitched 

 our tent on the way from the Yosemite to 



