Following the Lowland Wolf m 



miles ; now with a clash of Mexican bits and stirrups, 

 shouts passed along the line, and the hunt was on, a 

 wild race for the low country. 



These hills were steep for anything but a Catalina 

 sheep pony, and the normal, sane way to descend was 

 by the myriads of sheep trails that had worn into the 

 hillside like the cross waves on a sea beach. But the 

 coyote disregarded this and Fan directly down the pre- 

 cipice, the dogs following, and then those whose horses 

 took them. 



I have an indistinct recollection of slipping, sliding,, 

 almost rolling down the slope, of reaching the open and 

 leaping a yawning ditch into which a hound had rolled ; 

 of seeing close behind me the lady with no reins ; then 

 we rushed down into a ragged wash, up the opposite 

 side, and there was Don Coyote, one hundred yards 

 away, running for his life. Our horses were fresh, and 

 in a few moments we were on the flank of the silent 

 pack that swept along like a single dog a terrible 

 menace to the dun-coloured thing growing nearer and 

 nearer. There was madness in the race the master- 

 ing of space by the dogs, the running of the horses that 

 could not be stopped, the whistling of the wind, a desire 

 to take desperate chances and be in at the kill which 

 sent the blood whirling through the veins. 



The coyote ran directly over the back track and we 

 gained every second. By chance and good fortune my 

 horse carried me up with the hounds, and for the last 

 quarter of a mile we raced to the finish, the young lady, 



