218 ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS 
shotgun. It was OI’ Buck, leading his band up 
the mountain. 
But mountain air currents are tricky things 
sometimes. Just at this moment a strong gust 
came swirling down over the summit, from the 
wrong direction, and OI’ Buck got the scent—the 
man scent, and the odd, strong odor of gun oil. 
He pulled up sharp, and swerved hard to the left, 
bounding along without climbing for two hun- 
dred yards or more, and then resuming his ascent 
through unbroken laurel—what in the southern 
mountains would be called a laurel hell. He 
knew well enough that once in this tangle he and 
his herd could outrun anything. 
The man swore bitterly at the wind, and sat 
back to wait for another opportunity. He didn’t 
propose to waste energy by following up this 
herd through the laurel and over the upper 
ledges. 
OY Buck and his herd saw the red sun ball 
heave up over the eastern hills, from a ledge 1,500 
feet above the swamp where they had started to 
breakfast. This ledge stretched for ten miles 
along the eastern flank of the great mountain, 
