Climbing quietly and carefully for the better part of an hour, occasionally they heard the bell-like notes of the leader of the hounds and the sharper, lighter baying of the pack. “You’d think the ole feller would shut his trap and not make such a noise,” fretted Georgie, riding beside Raquel. “How in time can he expect to steal up on a lion thataway!” “Let him do his own huntin’, Tooth,” growled Russ. “You ain’t no hound, so you shut up. I notice we get to draw a bead on a critter more often follerin’ a hound’ dawg and his racket than we do makin’ Injun tracks through the woods by ourselves.” “Will you-all hush up!” breathed Raquel. “Look what a place for turkey.” The horses were walking now, up over a pine-crowned summit, carpeted thick with russet needles. As she spoke there sounded faintly over the ridge the silly peedle-eedle-eedle of the wild turkey. Instantly the hunters stopped in their tracks, and in a few moments there trailed over the crest a flock of half a dozen handsome birds. At this minute Old Whitey felt that he must switch his tail, and at the swishing slap the turkeys gave a startled obble-obble, and scurried with amazing speed into the forest. But not before a pinging whine from Raquel’s rifle, adding to their terror and their speed, took one from their number. On the russet floor of the forest lay a beautiful young turkey, “fat as butter, purty as a peacock, a crop full of piñons,” exulted Russ, bursting with pride at Raquel’s bringing down such a difficult bird. As if the shot had been a signal, a terrific hub-bub arose from the canyon below. Hastily gathering up the turkey they slipped and slid down the steep sides of the canyon. They could see nothing through the pines, but they heard the full tongue of the pack in chase give way to the sharp yapping of combat. Raquel, cheeks like dark holly berries, was fairly lifting the dancing cowpony down the slippery grade. Behind came Russ, and away back Georgie. Old Whitey reluctantly picked his way like a fat old woman, his hips wobbling from side to side, until under the frantic urging of Georgie’s heels he sat down and slid. “They’ve treed a cat,” shouted Raquel over her shoulder; “a lion. He’s fixin’ to spring.... Russ, quick!” Glowing tawnily through the branches below, crouched a menacing form, tail lashing cat-fashion, as the lion waited to spring upon the ancient enemy of his kind, to rend and tear his way to freedom and safety again. Russ fired, but his shot only stung the tail of the big cat, infuriating it. The horses were trembling, for they hate and fear the mountain lion or the big bear. The three hunters crept down, nearer and nearer. The great hound, El Capitan, was leaping up at the quarry above his head, fearlessly courting a cat and dog encounter.