OH, SHOOT! 



In consequence, we were for some time at a 

 loss just where to go cougar hunting. But 

 one day we met and held converse with Am- 

 brose Means, a Western cow gentleman, bron- 

 cho buster, and showman. Mr. Means had 

 been a member of two African expeditions, 

 had roped wild lions, rhinoceri, water buffa- 

 loes, wart hogs, and such other veldt animals 

 as are possessed of legs, horns, humps, warts, 

 and other physical deformities or facial blem- 

 ishes over which he could cast a loop. 



At the time of our meeting he was engaged, 

 for hire, in the business of leading tenderfeet 

 into the wilds of Arizona and guiding them 

 out, and he assured us that a kindly fate had 

 sent us to him. When we confessed our burn- 

 ing desire to sit for our portraits with as many 

 cougars as could be assembled, he declared 

 that he was the very man to ease our pain. 



"I'm your huckleberry!" said he. "The 

 north side of the Grand Canon, where I hunt, 

 is all littered up with lions. They're a public 

 nuisance, or they would be if there was any 

 public, which there ain't. Uncle Jim Owen, 

 my pardner, has been a government hunter 

 and has killed over six hundred, himself, right 

 there. He was with Jones when he got those 



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