I hid behind a breastwork of rotten logs,
with a few young evergreens in front--an excellent ambush. A broad game
trail slanted down the hill directly past me. I lay perfectly quiet
for about an hour, listening to the murmur of the pine forests, and the
occasional call of a jay or woodpecker, and gazing eagerly along the
trail in the waning light of the late afternoon. Suddenly, without
noise or warning of any kind, a cougar stood in the trail before me. The
unlooked-for and unheralded approach of the beast was fairly ghost-like.
With its head lower than its shoulders, and its long tail twitching, it
slouched down the path, treading as softly as a kitten. I waited until
it had passed and then fired into the short ribs, the bullet ranging
forward. Throwing its tail up in the air, and giving a bound, the
cougar galloped off over a slight ridge. But it did not go far; within
a hundred yards I found it stretched on its side, its jaws still working
convulsively.
The true way to hunt the cougar is to follow it with dogs.
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