“I don't know,” said Bob, doubtfully. “A mountain lion don't die easy. Mountain lions is what an insurance sharp would call a good resk. But I'll tell you how to carry on this campaign: I'll take the horses and scout over to the left until I get into the canyon yonder. Then I'll bear off up the canyon. If he crosses it—an' goin' on two legs that away, I don't look for it—I'll signal with a yell. If he don't, I'll circle him till I find the trail. Meanwhile you go straight ahead on his track afoot. Take it slow an' easy, for he's likely to be layin' somewhere.”
The trail carried me a quarter of a mile. As nearly as I might infer from the story the panther's passage had written in the snow, his speed held out. This last didn't look much like weakness. Still, the course was a splash of blood in red contradiction. The direction he took was slightly uphill.
The trail ended sharp at the edge of a wide canyon. There was a shelf of scaly rock about twelve feet down the side. This had been protected from the storm by the overhanging brink of the canyon, and there was no snow on the shelf. That and the twelve feet of canyon side above it were the yellow colour of the earth.
Below the shelf the snow again was deep, as the sides took an easier slope toward the bottom of the canyon. The panther had evidently scrambled down to the shelf. It took me less than a second to follow his wounded example. Once down I looked over the edge at the snow a few feet below to catch the trail again. The unmarred snow voiced no report of the game I hunted. I stepped to the left a few paces, still looking over for signs in the snow. There were none. As the shelf came to an end in this direction, I returned along the ledge, still keeping a hawk's eye on the snow below for the trail. I heard Bob riding in the canyon.
“Have you struck his trail?” I shouted.
“Thar's been nothin' down yere!” shouted Bob in reply. “The snow's as unbroken as the cream-cap on a pan of milk.”
Where was my panther? I had begun to regard him as a chattel. As my eye journeyed along the ledge the mystery cleared up. There lay my yellow friend close in against the wall. I had walked within a yard of him, looking the other way while earnestly reading the snow.
The panther was sprawled flat like a rug, staring at me with green eyes. I had broken his back, as Bob said. As I brought the Winchester to my face, his gaze gave way. He turned his head as if to hide it between his shoulder and the wall. I was too near to talk of missing, even in the dim light, and the next instant he was hiccoughing with a bullet in his brain. Six and one-half feet from nose to tip was the measurement; whereof the tail, which these creatures grow foolishly long, furnished almost one-half.