HUNTING THE JAGUAR 65 



a grunt, a squeal and a dash ; a chorus of grunts 

 and squeals and across in front of us dashed 

 the biggest herd of peccary it had ever been my 

 lot to come upon. With flaming eyes and brist- 

 ling hair the dogs made a mad rush forward. We 

 tried to bar their way and called them off. But 

 one might as well have attempted to stem the 

 torrent of Niagara as to try to get them off the 

 trail of these porkers. The dogs would not heed 

 and I was fearful lest the whole pack might be 

 wiped out by such a large herd of these pugna- 

 cious wild hogs. To make matters worse I had 

 brought the rifle into play, and one old boar lay 

 quite dead, while a second, just nicked, had with 

 all his viciousness, wheeled to make his fight to 

 the death; and about a half dozen more stopped 

 to back him up. The dogs surrounding these 

 cut them off from the rest of the herd, which 

 went crashing on through the woods. The clamor 

 and din that rose sounded as if a myriad of crazy 

 echoes had been set loose. That there would be 

 vacancies in the ranks of the dogs was now ap- 

 parent; old Dash had fought his last battle. The 

 long tusks of an old boar had been sunk deep into 

 his neck. The old rifle spoke out once, twice 

 and two porkers crumpled. Another I caught 

 a glimpse of as he rushed off with an arrow 



