The Wild Goat on Orizaba 227 



ened to the big Mexican saddles, we rode across the 

 hills to the north, and gradually rose, entering the chap- 

 arral, coming out on the edge of a wood-lined cliff covered 

 with ironwood, manzanita, and scrub oak, while over all 

 the slopes, blazing in deep reds, were Heteromeles, or 

 " holly " berries, that are in a way as famous in Southern 

 California as the cherry blossoms of Japan. A deep 

 canon swept up to the right, partly filled with cactus and 

 chaparral, and opposite rose Orizaba. As we stood, 

 taking in its beauties, the bleat of a wild goat came on 

 the air, and soon after a herd was seen winding around 

 the slope, then turning slowly up a trail. I never made 

 a better miss in my life, putting a bullet from the saddle 

 four or five feet this side of the big buck in the lead 

 and sending the herd up the slope on a run, where they 

 looked like small dogs, so far away were they. 



We soon found the trail, a precipitous plunge down 

 through the chaparral, frightening scores of valley quail, 

 coming out into the cafion with its patches of cactus, 

 then turned up the slope, finally reaching another trail 

 which led up the rocky side of the mountain, a goat and 

 sheep trail, over which the wiry horses slowly made their 

 way, by adopting the zigzag method, literally beating 

 up the slope in short tacks, I leading my animal, my 

 comrade riding. The trail was like one, described by 

 some wag, that led into a tree, and for an hour we 

 worked our way up the side of the almost impassable 

 mountain, gradually rising above the hills and canons. 



Finally, reaching the summit, we fastened the tired 



