1 68 Hunting the Grisly 



the wild turkeys gobbled loudly from their 

 roosts in the tops of the pecan trees. 



Having satisfied myself that there were no 

 javalinas left on the Frio ranch, and being 

 nearly at the end of my holiday, I was about 

 to abandon the effort to get any, when a pass- 

 ing cowman happened to mention the fact 

 that some were still to be found on the Nueces 

 River thirty miles or thereabout to the south- 

 ward. Thither I determined to go, and next 

 morning Moore and I started in a buggy 

 drawn by a redoubtable horse, named Jim 

 Swinger, which we were allowed to use be- 

 cause he bucked so under the saddle that no- 

 body on the ranch could ride him. We drove 

 six or seven hours across the dry, waterless 

 plains. There had been a heavy frost a few 

 days before, which had blackened the budding 

 mesquite trees, and their twigs still showed 

 no signs of sprouting. Occasionally we came 

 across open spaces where there was nothing 

 but short brown grass. In most places, how- 

 ever, the leafless, sprawling mesquites were 

 scattered rather thinly over the ground, cut- 

 ting off an extensive view and merely adding 

 to the melancholy barrenness of the landscape. 

 The road was nothing but a couple of dusty 

 wheel-tracks; the ground was parched, and 



