Deer-Hunting in Southern Sierras 45 



verberated from side to side of the cafion, arousing all its 

 dormant echoes. The hounds had passed me, so I 

 plunged into the chaparral, reaching an open place near 

 the summit as they came up the slope. There they 

 missed the scent and swept down again, and I worked 

 my way upward to a spur near the peak where I seemed 

 to be above the very world. Away to the south was the 

 Pacific like a mass of cloud. I could see the long line 

 of surf, the islands twenty miles out to sea, fifty miles 

 distant, like some huge monsters. Occasionally I heard 

 the baying, and dismounting lay in the bush and looked 

 down into the matchless abyss watching for the game. 

 An hour later I saw it across the canon, about the size 

 of a large dog, too far away it seemed. But I fired and 

 repeated the shot several times, emptying the magazine, 

 as a flash of dun dashed along the side of the cafton ; 

 then my guide appeared on a lower grade, plunging 

 down the side of the mountain, breaking through the 

 chaparral, and later I saw him climbing up the opposite 

 side, from which he brought the deer. 



It was high noon and the summer sun beat fiercely 

 down, while we ate jerked venison, and waited for the 

 afternoon ; then we changed to another peak, seeing 

 deer but getting none, though on a steep slope I came 

 upon a fine buck that doubtless had been shot and lost 

 some days previous. If there had been no game, there 

 would have been the view. The San Fernando Valley 

 was at my feet with its shimmering sands, its scattering 

 masses of chaparral, and winding through it the white, 



