The Cougar 



It was upwards of twelve years ago that I 

 had been down to one of the Rio Grande River 

 towns herding up Mexicans, whom I expected 

 to aid me in discovering gold where none ex- 

 isted. On my way down I had run across a 

 mountain lion making off with a lamb, and 

 shot and secured him after a little strategic 

 maneuvering. On the return journey, after I 

 had hired as many of the greasers as I desired, 

 I camped at night about twenty miles from 

 home, in a log cabin that had lost the door, 

 the roof and all the chinking from between 

 the logs. 



There was no reason to fear wild beasts — • 

 and the cabin would have been no protection 

 for me even if there had been ; nor was the 

 structure any protection from the numerous 

 cut-throat, horse-stealing Mexicans who flour- 

 ished in that section of the country as thickly 

 as cactus. However, I lariated my horse and 

 threw down my blankets in this tumble-down 



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