, 3 g Life in the Open 



mountain-sides, changing the face of the country, wash- 

 ing out more rocks and de'bris than the wear of five 

 normal years would accomplish. The cafions are a 

 feature of the country. The little stream foams down 

 among the rocks and boulders capriciously. In the 

 upper range there is a series of rocky basins, the water 

 flowing from one to another over falls of deep green 

 moss, while the face of the rock is covered with masses 

 of maidenhair ferns. Lower down, the stream flows 

 over great boulders, leaping from one to the other, then 

 out into long, pleasant reaches, to finally break away 

 from the mountains and go swirling musically on to the 

 sea. 



In the cafion I have in mind I knew several men who 

 preferred its solitudes. One day one came up to our 

 camp, which was on a spur of the range, and said that 

 a mountain lion had killed his burro and eaten part of 

 it during the night, and he was afraid that it would re- 

 turn. A trip to the cafion camp, a rifle-shot away, 

 showed the evidence of guilt : a small burro had been 

 stricken down and torn and lacerated. Several hunters 

 agreed to stay at the camp and see if the lion returned, 

 but it did not, though its track was seen in various 

 places, up and down the stream, testifying to its size. 

 Not long after I was notified that a lion had been seen 

 near the old Mission of San Gabriel, and one morning I 

 joined the hounds in the shadow of the old pile and 

 followed them over ten or fifteen miles of territory. 



Some Mexicans reported that they had seen the 



