With back to the cliff which no leap, however desperate, could scale, the cat looked warily about. Had the hunters not come upon the scene, the hunted thing would have waited, treed for hours or days, until either the dogs or itself gave out. But the smell of man and the sting of the shot made it desperate, and with a terrible, settling crouch, suddenly it sprang with an astounding leap, out over the jumping dogs and down upon Sis, gallant but light-weight member of the pack. Two of the dogs fell upon the lion’s flank while El Capitan sank his fangs in the tawny throat. The cat fought cruelly and well. Raquel, her heart pounding against her ribs, seized Russ’s Winchester and took one careful aim after another--without firing. If she shot she would be sure to get Cap, or Belt, or Sir Galahad (named and loved by Jimmy). And then from the far side of the canyon came the crack of a gun, the zoom of a bullet; the cat relaxed slowly, then fell limply beneath its pursuers, torn and bloody. Jami and Angel scrambled triumphantly down the opposite slope. Rushing over to the excited dogs, they pushed them aside and examined the trophy. Raquel’s voice and hands at last succeeded in quieting the hounds. She slipped the leash on El Capitan, for the blood lust had been aroused, and, in spite of his wounds, he was ready to hunt for days without returning to Los Ranchos. As they were examining the lion, a Mexican on a lean, scraggy horse swung down the narrow canyon, and drew up at the group around the cat. It was Manuel, the half-wit cousin of Elena Esquibal. He grinned amiably, and dismounted to look at the kill, for his horse could not be urged near. As he turned about and the animal leaped up the mountain side to join the other horses, Raquel saw on its flank a large leaning brand, an H. The shock of it left her speechless for the moment, and before she could collect herself, a tragedy almost took place. The big hound on her leash sprang at the vaguely smiling Mexican youth, tearing the strap away from Raquel’s hand, and burning the wrist round which it had been wrapped. He leaped upon the boy, sinking his fangs through the sleeve before the others rushed upon him, and tore him off. But Cap seemed enraged, straining and sniffing, even after the terrified Manuel had dashed to his horse and was making off up the mountain. Apparently he had not been injured, but he was scared out of what wits he had. “Never did see Cap attack a human before this,” muttered Russ. “There is something mighty queer there.” “Did you notice that brand on his horse, Russ?” asked Raquel, who had recovered her breath and her speech by now. The boys hadn’t noticed. Something kept Raquel from saying more about it. She looked at the lion. It was a long, lean creature, seven feet from nose to tail, its fine coat torn, its flanks as lean as though it had not had its pick of cattle through the winter. The gaunt, ugly jaws had been pried apart; the long fangs still dripped.