Hunting in Many Lands 



cubic yard, when, as suddenly as before, and 

 as directly in front of me, those two glaring 

 balls shone out like a hideous nightmare. This 

 time, I confess, I was a little bit annoyed. I 

 knew that, as a rule, mountain lions do not fol- 

 low you imless they are ravenous with hunger 

 or smell blood. I had not been hunting, and, 

 consequently, my clothes and hands were free 

 from gore, and I was therefore forced to the 

 sickening conclusion that this particular beast 

 had selected me as a toothsome morsel for its 

 evening repast. I cannot honestly say I was 

 flattered by the implied compliment, and, sum- 

 moning all my nerve, I reached for a rock and 

 hurled it at those eyes, to hear it crash into 

 the dry brush, and, greatly to my peace of 

 mind, to see the diabolical lights go out, for it 

 was too dark to distinguish the animal itself. 



Congratulating myself on the disappearance 

 of the hideous will-o'-the-wisp, I set out at a 

 five-mile-an-hour gait for camp. My castles in 

 the air had by this time quite dissolved, and I 

 was attending strictly to the business of the 

 trail, wishing camp was at hand instead of a 

 mile off, when once more those greenish lan- 

 terns of despair loomed up ahead of me — not 

 more than a dozen feet away, it seemed. I 



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