176 AN AMERICAN HUNTER 



The first day that I was able to make a hunt I rode 

 out with my foreman, Sylvane Ferris. I was mounted 

 on Muley. Twelve years before, when Muley was my 

 favorite cutting pony on the round-up, he never seemed 

 to tire or lose his dash, but Muley was now sixteen years 

 old, and on ordinary occasions he liked to go as soberly 

 as possible; yet the good old pony still had the fire latent 

 in his blood, and at the sight of game or, indeed, of 

 cattle or horses he seemed to regain for the time being 

 all the headlong courage of his vigorous and supple 

 youth. 



On the morning in question it was two or three hours 

 before Sylvane and I saw any game. Our two ponies 

 went steadily forward at a single-foot or shack, as the 

 cow-punchers term what Easterners call a " fox trot." 

 Most of the time we were passing over immense grassy 

 flats, where the mat of short curled blades lay brown 

 and parched under the bright sunlight. Occasionally we 

 came to ranges of low barren hills, which sent off gently 

 rounded spurs into the plain. 



It was on one of these ranges that we first saw our 

 game. As we were travelling along the divide we spied 

 eight antelope far ahead of us. They saw us as soon 

 as we saw them, and the chance of getting to them seemed 

 small ; but it was worth an effort, for by humoring them 

 when they started, so as to let them wheel and zigzag be- 

 fore they became really frightened, and then, when they 

 had settled into their run, by galloping toward them at 

 an angle oblique to their line of flight, there was always 

 some little chance of getting a shot. Sylvane was on a 



