The dogs were already tumbling about in their kennels, sensing a hunt. As Raquel and the boys went back towards the house the smell of hot coffee came deliciously down the wind. Fortified by incredible breakfasts of hominy, pork chops, corn cakes and molasses syrup, the hunters hurried down again to the corral. Just as the east grew crimson, Russ took the two lead hounds out on leash. The four others that made the pack strung eagerly along, following down to Pancho’s house, from which the start was to be made. Esquibal was waiting for them and at once informed Raquel that he could not go on the hunt because he had had word from Elena’s uncle to go to La Bolsa today, but he would certainly return tonight and would go around by Los Pasos and call for that bunch of oil cakes for calf feeding. Raquel was annoyed, but as it did not seem to make any real difference, except that they would be a man short, she nodded, for the dogs were straining at the leash. Whining and trembling with excitement, the powerful leader of the pack ran round and round, nose to the ground, trying to pick up a scent already three days stale. Baffled, he threw up his head to sniff the air time and again, leaping towards the old oxcart that lay in the yard. “Never seen him act that way,” said Russ, worried, and unsnapped the leash. With a deep-throated yelp, the hound shot off towards the foothills and was out of sight in a minute, the rest of the pack after him. Raquel was a close second and her pony needed no quirting. As the first ray of the sun flashed over the mesas below them, the hounds gave tongue from a canyon ahead, the deep music of their baying echoing roundly. The hunt pressed forward, the horses racing on the morning wind, Raquel, as usual, in the lead. With the wind in her face and the blood singing through her veins, with delight in the chase and the springing earth beneath her horse’s feet, her light body and lighter hand guided the cow pony unerringly. Now, a good cow pony usually does not rely on other than its own quick eye and quicker feet, but in such a chase as this it trusts the rider somewhat to help it avoid gopher holes and rough rocky going. And where Jami put his horse at fence or bush, Raquel rode to save her pony. “Hey, cowboy, spare that hoss,” she cried as she passed Jami. “That’s not a crow you’re ridin’. Go round a few mountains.” Far away to the left, and now to the right, the belling of the leader of the pack could be heard. “_Gato grande_,” called Angel; “he always sings so when he smells the big cat.” The horses slowed up at the mouth of a deep canyon, and the hunters stopped to breathe them. There was no more baying for a space, so after five minutes they pressed forward again, Raquel bearing off to the right with Russ and Georgie, while Jami, Panchito and Angel took to the left. They would follow two ridges until they should meet all together again near the summit.