Deer-Hunting in Southern Sierras 43 



miles, turned to the south into a narrow green cafion, 

 then wheeled sharply to the right, and up among the 

 cactus and chaparral of a little valley pulled up beneath 

 the live oaks. The hounds jumped out, my guide un- 

 harnessed, fastening one horse to the tree and saddling 

 the other for my benefit, and we started up the canon. 



I thought of my last deer hunt not a mile from Ned 

 Buntline's old home in the open at the foot of Blue 

 Mountain in the Adirondacks, where I stole through the 

 forest over a bed of leaves, resting on fern-covered 

 trunks coated with moss, every leaf, twig, and branch 

 scintillating with moisture. Here the only dampness 

 for six months had been the fog and dew ; not a drop 

 of rain had fallen, yet the chaparral that robed the 

 mountain was rich in greens, a mantle undulating and 

 beautiful, at a distance, but, to hunt deer in, an impene- 

 trable maze. 



This chaparral was composed of Adenostoma, a 

 thick, sweet-scented bush from four to six feet high, 

 spreading and stiff, so that when it bent back and struck 

 one on the return, it was a flagellation. With it were 

 masses of Heteromales covered with white flowers, 

 sumac, wild lilac, scrub oak, and others, with here and 

 there in the clear places a Spanish bayonet or yucca 

 with a thousand daggers en guard. Imagine acres of 

 this, bound together in a more or less compact tangle, 

 with patches of dead wood, remains of ancient fires, 

 which were stiffer and more offensive than the rest. 



My guide said there was a trail, and leading the way 



