THE POCKET HUNTER 



pinon crop on Black Mountain, and the 

 wolves of Mesquite Valley. I suppose he 

 never knew how much he depended for 

 the necessary sense of home and compan- 

 ionship on the beasts and trees, meeting 

 and finding them in their wonted places, 

 — the bear that used to come down Pine 

 Creek in the spring, pawing out trout 

 from the shelters of sod banks, the juniper 

 at Lone Tree Spring, and the quail at 

 Paddy Jack's. 



There is a place on Waban, south of 

 White Mountain, where flat, wind-tilted 

 cedars make low tents and coves of shade 

 and shelter, where the wild sheep winter 

 in the snow. Woodcutters and prospectors 

 had brought me word of that, but the 

 Pocket Hunter was accessory to the fact. 

 About the opening of winter, when one 

 looks for sudden big storms, he had at- 

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