his head near the ground. The timber was open, and although he was often out of sight, we did not entirely lose him until we had gone about a mile. The prospectors were acquainted with the country, and they told us that the lion had undoubtedly gone to a certain canyon about three miles further up the gulch we were then following. As we advanced, the hills were closer together and their sides were covered with a dense growth of small blackpines; and it was also noticeable that there were no indications of grouse or other small game, which made it evident that the lion was an old resident.

A quarter of a mile from where the gulch opened into the canyon, we met the mongrel returning. He was as sullen as ever, and I mentally elected him as fit only for lion's meat-which he was soon to become. But he possessed a sneaking sort of intelligence, such as a Bowery tough might have, and was well trained for this kind of sport. He trailed without giving mouth, and when he returned, as in this case, his master knew that it was not without good reason. The mongrel again took the lead, but slowly. We followed, and in a few minutes we were in the canyon, which broadened to a little park of half a dozen acres in extent and was overgrown with

the mountains. This was the home of the mountain lion.

The mongrel trailed on straight through the timber toward the further side. It was cool and damp and gloomy down in this great hole in the ground; and one would be surprised if such a place did not possess some strange inhabitant-even a denizen much less earthly than a lion would not have found it uncongenial. I was glad that the timber grew thinner as we approached the western side, and the sunshine on the cliffs above seemed friendly and cheerful. The dog stopped at the rocks, which rose in irregular masses high against the walls.

"Looks like we are stalled," said the owner of the mongrel, looking up at the rocks. "It's sartin the dog can't never locate him up thar; looks like he's safe this trip.'

"Reckon we'll have ter lay a bait and watch fer him," suggested his partner.

"Thar's sure somethin' on top of that thar flat rock up yon' 'gainst ther wall," the sheep-man remarked, taking down his field-glass, through which he had been intently examining the rocks. "Here," he continued, handing me the glass; "now look whar I p'int my rifle."

The rock that he pointed out was a hundred yards away and as many feet above the valley; it was flat on top and about a rod in area. Just over its edge, I could make out an object that looked like the head of a yellowish-colored animal. It was the lion, and he was lying asleep in the sun. The sheep-man said, after a long look through the glass :

"No show fer a shot from here, but if one of us was on the cliff up thar above him, 'twould be dead easy to drop a bullet plumb into. him."

After a consultation, the sheepman said that he would climb a tree, and then he would be high enough to have a clear view and an open shot at the animal. We all wanted a

shot at his lionship, but the sheepman argued, that as the lion had eaten his mutton, his was the only claim worthy of consideration; and the rest of us, he said, would receive sufficient edification in seeing him make a centre shot "jest under the ears of that thar lion." The prospector's claim was, that without his dog none of us would have gotten a shot. But the sheep-man prevailed, and at once started up a fir tree. The branches grew near the ground, and he made good progress until he incautiously trusted his weight on a dead limb.

"Crack! smash!' Like a shot, the sound struck our startled ears. Quickly looking toward the lion, I saw a fleeting vision of a big yellow animal on the rock; but before a rifle could be raised, it had vanished. The owner of the mongrel muttered something about sheep-men in general, and the folly of mingling with them at all, which our sheepishlooking companion did not hear, for he was occupied with his bruises.

We went back down the gulch, a mournful procession; but two of the number the owner of the mongrel and I-declared that we would devise some way to kill the lion. The prospector came up to our camp, and we talked over various plans, but agreed on nothing. We trusted that something would happen to aid us, and it did that night.

Along toward morning, the sheepmen were awakened by the sheep rushing from one side of the corral to the other, then packing themselves into a solid mass in one corner of the enclosure, which alone saved the flock from a general stampede. One of the dogs went out into the darkness, barking and yelping, and when he reached the further side of the corral, there was one sharper, shriller yelp, and the dog did not return. The sheep-men hastened out, followed by the prospectors and the mongrel. They found a sheep that, like the first, had been killed

by some animal biting it through the throat. Stretched beside the sheep, was the shepherd dog, bleeding and helpless. The mongrel was eager to take the warm trail of the lion, for lion it was, but he was restrained. As it was nearly daylight, the owner of the mongrel came to our camp and reported. I was anxious to follow most any plan that promised success, and so agreed to do as he suggested, and ride to the cliffs, while he should follow the lion's trail with the mongrel.

We set out at once, and the sun was just above the distant range of mountains as I approached the edge of the cliffs; but down in the deep canyon everything was hidden in gloom, and a thin mist hung over the tree-tops. How lonely it seemed up there where the view extended for miles over trees and hills and mountains, where the only touch of civilization that ever invaded those solitudes was given by such intruders as were then within its bounds! The scene below changed rapidly, for the mist rose with the sun and rested half way up the side of the canyon wall, when it gradually resolved itself into thin air. Then it was not long before I saw the prospector and the mongrel. Poor dog! how little he knew, as he moved along with his ugly head almost touching the ground, the fate that awaited him. Through my glass, the man and dog could occasionally be seen among the trees, and I watched them until the mongrel led to the rocks near the scene of our former adventure.

musical and fierce, as it echoed through the canyon. At the same instant, what seemed like a shadow from among the rocks met him on the bound. What a mix-up followed! It was a revolving mass of dog and lion; snarling, snapping, baying. It lasted only an instant; then the prospector, whom I had not seen in my excitement, was bending over the gashed and mutilated body of his poor, ugly, Bowery-like mongrel. The lion easily escaped among the rocks. I met the prospector where the gulch broadened out below the canyon, and he was disheartened, for he had a great affection for his dog. When a mountain man has taken several seasons to train a dog for lions and other big game, that dog is without price: he is like the favorite horse of an Arab.

The sheep-men had gone with their flock to another corral some miles above, when we returned. Unfortunately, they had left us no mutton, so the prospectors suggested our going to a deer-lick that evening, to kill a deer; for our camps were nearly out of meat. My friend and I begged off, for we should have to be out all night, if no game was killed in the evening; and then we should have to be at the lick before the faintest signs of daylight began to glimmer through the trees, for at the first tint in the eastern sky, the deer leave for higher grounds. When you are in the mountains, the luxurious warmth of the blankets is too genial to be left unnecessarily for the early morning mists and hungry mosquitoes. However, such laziness. was not to go unrebuked, and it received one that left a lasting regret in my mind.

"Looks like our neighbors have got a buck," my companion said, looking up the gulch the next morning.

We were sitting in the sun enjoying our pipes and discussing the program for the day. Sure enough, they were coming down, one man carrying both rifles, and the other

had over his shoulder what appeared to be a saddle of venison. Coming to our tent, he threw his pack on the ground, saying: "Reckon I'm about even with that fellow now."

It was the skin and head of a mountain lion; and as he unrolled it, the size astonished me.

"It's the one we were after. See them marks on his throat and shoulders? That's whar the old dog had him." And the marks that he pointed out had been made by some animal only a little less powerful than the lion itself.

some

The story he told was, that they found no deer in the evening, so had camped near by, and in the morning. they went again to the lick, reaching it before daylight. The lick was a small marsh surrounded by trees and thick-growing bushes. The two hunters approached it cautiously. Occasionally a gentle splash told that animal was feeding in the marsh, and when objects began to show, they saw a small deer a few rods from them. As only a buck would be killed, they waited for better light, so that no mistake might be made. In looking about, something among the thick branches of a fir tree between them and the light attracted the attention of one of the hunters. After watching closely for a few minutes, he became satisfied that it was some large animal. Calling his companion's attention to it, they determined to kill it if possible and leave the deer for another time. Both of the hunters took aim and at the word, fired. The smoke hung over them in the heavy air, hiding the tree, but a mighty splash and struggle in the marsh followed. When they dragged the animal out, they were delighted to find that they had killed our big mountain lion.

I begged and bargained for the skin, but the erstwhile owner of the dog was obdurate. He declared that he should always have a feeling of satisfaction in its possession; keep it he intended to, and keep it he did.

ΤΗ

HE bicycle element in the little town of Hampton was bubbling over with excitement. The cause of this unusual state of affairs was the announcement that the president of the Ladies' Health Cycle Club had offered a gold watch as a prize to the member that could ride to Halseyville and return in the shortest time. The distance was just one hundred miles. Now, the president had some ideas of her own about what a woman could do, and declared that if a man had made the run, so could the girls. On several occasions, by starting early in the morning and riding the whole day, the trip was made one way; but none had been brave enough to attempt the round trip, and there was much difference of opinion as to whether there was a girl in the club with the needed endurance.

Beth Goodwin had been riding only one season, but she was a

win the race. Day after day he rode with her to the race track at the old driving park, and watched her as she spun over the smooth surface, mile after mile. Sometimes he would ride with her, setting the pace; constantly cautioning her about breathing improperly; correcting the awkward and unnecessary motion of her ankles in pedaling; noticing every defect in position and action. At home he had enlisted her mother's aid, and established the most rigid rules as to what should and what should not be

strong, healthy girl, and soon outclassed the majority of her companions, who had had greater experience; there were only a few in the whole club that could keep up with her on their weekly runs. She was the most enthusiastic of all the girls over the offer, and had trained hard and thoroughly under the critical eye of Guy Bruce, who was a particular friend of Beth's, and an allround athlete. He had taken pride in coaching Beth in her training, and fully believed that she would

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eaten. As the result of this system, his pupil was a very attractive specimen of womanhood; her face shone with health and strength and beauty; her form was grace and symmetry themselves, and Guy would say, with pardonable pride: "That's what cycling does for women."

Beth had imbibed the confidence of her train

er, and when the eventful day broke bright and clear, she rose at an early hour with a light heart, and after her training breakfast," as she laughingly called it, started on her wheel for the village post office, where the riders were to start promptly at seven o'clock. As she rode slowly along, enjoying the fresh morning air, she was overtaken by Marion Holmes, another member of the club, who was also on her way to the meeting place. It was still early, and as they were in no hurry,