Hunting the Lynx 3I 



Pennsylvania. I hunted the hounds about twice a week 

 with a friend, and as they did not have sufficient exer- 

 cise our experiences became a part of the history and 

 traditions of the club, often at our expense. We in- 

 variably ran down game. If it were not a coyote, fox, or 

 wildcat, it would be a Chinaman, a burro, or a dog. 

 These hounds would have something, and when we 

 started out or entered a town, every living thing took 

 to the woods. One day we were moving through one 

 of the canons of the Puente range, about seven miles 

 from home, when we came upon a herd of sheep on the 

 crest of a hill. The hounds had drawn a blank, and 

 when one sighted a sheep he ran it down, possibly 

 mistaking it for a coyote ; at least we claimed this 

 for the hound. But before we could reach it the 

 pack had killed the sheep, which rolled down the hill. 

 Presently the herder, a piratical-looking Basque, ap- 

 peared, headed for us, and we prepared for trouble, as a 

 matter of precaution keeping our horses above him, as 

 he came stalking along. We braced ourselves for the 

 explanation and were ready to apologise and settle, 

 when the man came up and taking off his hat said in a 

 Basque patois, "Will the gentlemen pardon my fool 

 sheep? They run and excite the hound. I am very 

 sorry"; then he waited and well, we accepted his 

 apology with dignity, and, of course, insisted upon 

 paying for the sheep. 



Another day the pack took up a scent and with 

 a roar of sounds swept over the mesa like the wind. 



