Serrania de Ronda 365 
between the “rights of families” and their insane relations (or those 
whom they may consider such) are easy to conceive. 
The first covert tried was a strong jungle flanking the main gorge, but 
this and a second beat proved blank, though two roebuck broke back. 
The third drive comprised the main manchas, or thickets, of the Boca de 
la Foz, and to this we ascended on foot, leaving the horses picketed 
behind. Our four guns occupied the rim of a natural amphitheatre 
which dipped sharply away some 1500 feet beneath us, the centre 
choked with brushwood—lentisk, arbutus, and thorn—20 feet deep. 
On our left towered a perpendicular block of limestone cliffs, the rieht 
flank of the jungle being bordered by a series of up-tilted rock-strata, 
white as marble and resembling a ruined street. 
Ten minutes of profound silence, not a sound save the distant tinkle 
of a goat-bell, or the song of that feathered recluse, the blue rock-thrush 
(in Spanish, Solitario), then the distant cries of the beaters:in the depths 
below told us the fray had begun. 
Another ten minutes’ suspense. Then a crash of hound-musie pro- 
claimed that the quarry was at home. This boar proved to be one of 
certain grizzly monsters of which we were specially in search, his lair a 
jumble of boulders islanded amid thickest jungle. Here he held his 
ground, declining to recognise in canine aggressors a superior force. 
Two boar-hounds reinforced the skirmishers of the pack, yet the old 
tusker stood firm. For minutes that seemed like hours the conflict raged 
stationary: the sonorous baying of the boar-hounds, the “ yapping” of 
the smaller dogs, and shouts of mountaineers blended with the howl of an 
incautious podenco as he received a death-rip—all formed a chorus of 
sounds that carried their exciting story to the sentinel guns above. 
The seat of war being near half-a-mile away, no immediate issue was 
expected, Then there occurred one crash of bush, and a second boar 
dashed straight for the pass where the writer barred the way. The 
suddenness of the encounter disconcerted, and the first shot missed—the 
bullet splashing on a grey rock just above—time barely remained to jump 
aside and avoid collision. The left barrel got home: a stumble and a 
savage grunt as an ounce of lead penetrated his vitals, and the boar 
plunged headlong, his life-blood dyeing the weather-blanched rocks and 
green palmetto. For a moment he lay, but ere cold steel could administer 
a quietus, he had regained his feet and dashed back. Whether revenge 
prompted that move or it was merely an effort to regain the covert 
he had just left, we know not—a third bullet laid him lifeless. 
During this interlude (though it only occupied five seconds) the main 
combat below reached its climax. The old boar had left his stronghold, 
and after sundry sullen stands and promiscuous skirmishes (during which 
a second podenco died), he made for the heights. Showing first on the 
centre, he was covered for a moment by a ‘£50 Express; but, not 
breaking covert, no shot could be fired, and when next viewed the boar 
