Two dogs, which served more as sociable companions about camp than in any other capacity, accompanied us. One of the dogs was a large-sized bull-terrier, rather old and at times inclined to be cross. This animal answered to the name of Major. Major had a peculiar trait, which it is hard to account for. In the evening, when the cook pulled out his harmonicon and began to perform on it, Major would stick his nose straight up in the air and emit the most doleful and lugubrious wail I ever listened to.
The other dog was a fox-terrier, named Jack, like most of his species, a very animated little creature, always ready for a scrap. This disposition was a source of annoyance at times, because Jack had a strong prejudice against porcupines, and on several occasions I have had to sit on the ground and help pull the quills out of his hide after one of these encounters.
As I was leisurely riding along some distance behind the guide I saw him stop on a slight elevation somewhat in advance, and at the same time I heard the dogs barking very savagely. Jake made a sign to me to hurry up. When I arrived at the spot I saw a couple of coyotes not more than forty yards away yelping and tantalizing the dogs. I dismounted, after pulling my rifle out of its scabbard, and brought it carelessly to my shoulder. Jake in the meantime had unsheathed his knife ready to strip the hides.
I fired, and, much to my surprise, both of the coyotes vanished with startling suddenness. I had evidently missed, probably overshooting. I think it was about the worst shot I ever made, and I never could understand it. A sportsman will once in a while flinch through some muscular contraction which it is hard to account for. The thick sage brush and intervening hills made a second shot practically hopeless. Jake seemed overcome with emotion, quite as much as myself. For once his eloquent tongue failed him; the words appeared to stick in his throat. His wide open eyes and his distended jaws, which seemed to be pried open with a quid of tobacco in one corner of his mouth, betrayed his astonishment. In silence we remounted and rode a considerable space without speaking a word.
Finally Jake opened the conversation with all the tact of an accomplished diplomat.
Turning in his saddle and looking intently at me he exclaimed: “Say, do you know what I would do if I missed a shot like that?”
“No,” I replied.
“I would take that gun and smash it over the first rock I came across.”
I quite agreed with him that it was the fault of the gun, but, strange to say, I did not take his advice. I still have the weapon and I can recall some of its achievements, which are not wholly discreditable.
Several days passed quite uneventfully except for a rather novel experience. While sitting around the camp-fire one evening our attention was attracted by the noise of some animal breaking through the undergrowth. The sound of cracking branches and pattering hoofs seemed to approach closer.