The Cougar. 337 



dogged my footsteps to within a mile of the ranch house ; 

 his round footprints being as clear as writing in the snow. 



This was the best chance of the kind that I ever had ; 

 but again and again I have found fresh signs of cougar, 

 such as a lair which they had just left, game they had 

 killed, or one of our venison caches which they had robbed, 

 and have hunted for them all day without success. My 

 failures were doubtless due in part to various shortcomings 

 in hunter's-craft on my own part ; but equally without 

 doubt they were mainly due to the quarry's wariness and 

 its sneaking ways. 



I have seen a wild cougar alive but twice, and both 

 times by chance. On one occasion one of my men, Men 

 rifield, and I surprised one eating a skunk in a bullberry 

 patch ; and by our own bungling frightened it away from 

 its unsavory repast without getting a shot. 



On the other occasion luck befriended me. I was with 

 a pack train in the Rockies, and one day, feeling lazy, and 

 as we had no meat in camp, I determined to try for deer 

 by lying in wait beside a recently travelled game trail. 

 The spot I chose was a steep, pine-clad slope leading down 

 to a little mountain lake. I hid behind a breastwork of 

 rotten logs, with a few young evergreens in front an ex- 

 cellent ambush. A broad game trail slanted down the hill 

 directly past me. I lay perfectly quiet for about an hour, 

 listening to the murmur of the pine forests, and the occa- 

 sional call of a jay or woodpecker, and gazing eagerly 

 along the trail in the waning light of the late afternoon. 

 Suddenly, without noise or warning of any kind, a cougar 

 stood in the trail before me. The unlocked for and un- 



