186 THE OREGON SPOiRTSMAN 



advance of "Count" and, hearing an avalanche coming down behind 

 me, I turned quickly and saw "Count" crawling out from under a mass 

 of loose rocks and crying excitedly, "Where is the buck?" Imagine 

 the disgusted look on his face when I informed him it was only a 

 coyote. ' v 



Feeling certain that there was a buck in the vicinity, I went along 

 a small rim of rock, while "Count" went down about 100 yards. I 

 had not gone far when I heard the familiar thump-thump, and saw a 

 nice five-pointer hitting it from the rimrock. I shot and hit him in the 

 flank, the bullet coming out at the upper part of the brisket. The deer 

 ran for a small "hogback" and "Count" got a shot that caused him to 

 throw up his head and fall. The bullets from each gun were not more 

 than six inches apart and running parallel to each other. There is 

 always a thrilling sensation in dropping a good buck, but that was 

 nothing compared to the yells let out by "Count" when he found he 

 had killed the deer. "I got him, I got him!" he yelled. He was too 

 excited to assist in the dressing of the meat. The deer was taken to 

 camp and the antlers tied to "Count's" cycle as a trophy to his 

 prowess, it being his first deer. 



The next morning we struck across the mountain on a horse trail 

 with our motorcycles, and having but one quart of gasoline between 

 us, Mr. Modie volunteered to pull us up to the top, where we arrived 

 at about 10 o'clock. At this point we were about 9000 feet above sea 

 level, and from this on our descent started. Tying a riata to the 

 motors, we took them down one at a time, the path being so steep that 

 two men held back on the machines from the rear on a rope while 

 the other steered the machine down the descent of more than 1200 

 feet in a mile and a half. Getting down safely, we mounted our motor- 

 cycles and started to coast down the mountain side to Mirandas Sta- 

 tion, a distance of about four miles. Here we filled our tanks with 

 gasoline and accepted Mr. Mirandas' hospitality for the night. It 

 was here also that we learned much about the game conditions from 

 him, as he is well versed in the habits of all kinds of game in that 

 country. 



We left Mirandas Station for the well known Alvord Desert, a 

 dry lake bed about fifteen miles long and nine miles wide. The lake 

 bed is a natural speedway, smooth as a floor, and a great resort for 

 motorists. We decided to try the speed of our machines, which were 

 registered to seventy-eight miles per hour. They surely done justice 

 to the record, crossing the desert in five and one-half minutes. We 

 reached the Alvord ranch in the evening. This ranch is owned by 

 Frank Clerf and consists of 15,000 acres all in one body. There are 

 thousands of mountain quail on this ranch and about 300 prairie 

 chickens. Mr. Clerf has a pet doe with two fawns, which are so tame 

 that they will come up to the house and allow themselves to be petted 

 by the ranch help. There are also two cow elk left here of the herd 

 taken there by Mr. Divine some twenty-five years ago. 



Leaving the ranch the next morning, we went to Alberson, a station 

 about twenty-five miles north, near the line of the Stien Mountain 

 Reserve, then down to Diamond. After dinner we started for Narrows 

 and had gone about a mile when I broke my machine and had to be 

 towed back to Diamond. Not having the necessary tools with which to 

 repair the machine, "Count" offered to tow me and my machine to 

 Burns. If the reader has ever had a similar experience of being towed 

 for sixty miles in the soft sand and dust, he can appreciate my predic- 

 ament. We arrived in Burns at 6 o'clock in the evening, having com- 

 pleted the feat of crossing the Stien Mountains on a motorcycle. 



