Hunting the Lynx 25 



the scent was picked up, and after another run the game 

 was treed in a large sycamore. 



Two hours had slipped by, and the excitement and 

 speed of the runs had told on the dogs, which were 

 yelping with rage and disappointment. They now ran 

 about the tree baying in ominous tones, their tongues 

 hanging out, and the long mournful O-O-o-o, O-O-o-o, ris- 

 ing on the air like the tolling of bells. Up into the tree 

 went another hunter, and the hunt backed off to give the 

 animal fair play, that was the essence of the sport. She 

 waited until he reached her, snarling at him viciously, 

 then creeping out on to the tip of a limb, glanced about, 

 and made one of the pluckiest jumps I have ever seen 

 or heard of, going down clear forty or fifty feet, bound- 

 ing on her rubber-like pads several feet into the air, 

 then fighting her way through the dogs, cutting as she 

 went. She ran fifty feet on the level, when Music shot 

 ahead and rolled her over, and bedlam broke loose as 

 the pack poured in. At least half the hounds were cut 

 or slashed by this vicious animal that fought with tooth 

 and claw, throwing herself upon her back, and snarling 

 like a fiend. Several dogs were retired before she suc- 

 cumbed. Hanging from my saddle she nearly touched 

 the ground, a fine specimen of lynx, in good condition. 

 On her skin, which I had mounted as a rug, various 

 young hounds were introduced to their first game, and 

 it is fair to say that they ultimately wore out the rug in 

 these practice hunts. 



The hunt now worked up the arroyo beyond the 



