THE SHADOW OF THE DESERT 77 



footprints in the ooze, sorry for the dangling paw. 

 It made no difference that the tracks led straight 

 to the precious egret rookery, where they showed 

 clearly enough what a scourge to the desert bird- 

 life the creature must be. Lodged in a part of the 

 willows was the body of a night heron, and un- 

 derneath a great trampling of tracks. The carcass 

 hung just out of the wolf's reach. A hundred 

 times he had leaped for it, as no doubt, a hundred 

 times he had crouched beneath the flimsy plat- 

 forms in the matted willows, waiting for a nestling 

 or an egg to fall. Out in the lupine and marginal 

 grass we found a Canada goose nest, the nest of a 

 Wilson's phalarope, and two or three mallards' 

 nests which he had rifled. All of this was to the 

 creature's discredit. I might heartily wish him 

 dead; but I could not see him running maimed 

 into the desert without pity and without protest 

 against the careless shot. 



You cannot follow the wild trails far without 

 the conviction that the human hunter is the crud- 

 est of all the beasts of prey. You will wonder if, 

 for every creature killed, one has not got away 

 wounded to die a dozen deaths in the brush. I 

 am frequently coming upon the maimed and 



