OH, SHOOT! 



photograph might have got by at that, had 

 we needed it, but, fortunately, we did not. 



This was the spot where Salisbury had 

 killed his seven deer with one round from his 

 six-shooter; so we went hunting, despite the 

 protests of our pilot. In fervent Spanish, he 

 assured us that the place reeked of redskins, 

 that hidden, hostile eyes were no doubt fixed 

 upon us at that very moment, that unseen 

 lips were smacking in moist anticipation of the 

 fancy cuts and crown roasts into which we 

 would subdivide. Our knowledge of the lan- 

 guage was imperfect, but, with a fervor equal 

 to his, we responded: 



" Muy guano!" which we took to be the 

 Spanish equivalent of "very good." 



Tiburon is a sure cure for buck fever. 

 Never have I seen a deer country like it, except 

 perhaps the plateau north of the Grand Canon. 

 The island where we landed was broken into 

 many low hills separated by dry watercourses, 

 with just sufficient brush in the arroyos to 

 afford cover. The slopes were open, and they 

 were crisscrossed by a very network of game 

 trails worn deep into the flinty soil. Those 

 trails led everywhere. It seemed impossible 

 to walk a half mile without starting some- 



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