THE COWARDLY COUGAR 



We plowed through thickets, head down, eyes 

 shut; we plunged into steep-sided gullies 

 where our horses stood on their hands; then 

 we dismounted and toiled out, our lungs 

 bursting, our pores streaming. In the course 

 of this mad chase, which lasted a couple of 

 hours, we made extensive private collections 

 of thorns, cactus spines, and Spanish daggers. 

 By the time we had quilled ourselves over like 

 fretful porcupines, the dogs had gotten entirely 

 out of hearing, and Ambrose announced that it 

 wasn't a lion, after all, but a coyote. Yes, Pot 

 would sometimes take a coyote trail. Fred 

 and I breathed easier. We got out of our 

 saddles, rubbed our bruises, sucked our cuts, 

 and dehorned ourselves. We agreed that it 

 was a fine, free life, and very stimulating. 



A long time later, when the dogs returned 

 one by one, they were eager to explain, but too 

 tired to hunt further, so we returned to camp, 

 greatly heartened by the realization that two 

 uneventful days had stolen past, during which 

 we had neither treed anything nor been treed 

 by anything. 



In order that our method of hunting may 

 be properly understood, it is necessary briefly 

 to outline the habits and idiosyncrasies of our 



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