Captain Banner, of the Yellowbird Ranch, sat upon a flat hot rock, half-way up a certain California hill-side, eating his luncheon. A few feet from the Captain stood tethered his good horse Huckleberry, who had no luncheon. No more had the three stout mongrel dogs who commonly ran along with Captain Banner, when the straying off of some of his cattle forced him to spend the day in getting at their whereabouts.
The dogs sat composedly on their haunches, two of them staring down into the ravine below, and the other one, Poncho, with his tongue out, watching every mouthful that the Captain took with much interest. But his master was in anything but a good-humor. He had ridden since early daylight, and not a single horned runaway had been sighted. No wonder he was discouraged.
"Upon my word," he said to the group of dogs, tossing a bit of cheese into Poncho's jaws, "you're a pretty set of brutes, I must say! Stringing along all day after Huckleberry's heels, and no more good at keeping a herd together or recovering it than—than greyhounds. Now if any one of you had the least— My good gracious!" he exclaimed, breaking off, "what is up?"
Before he had time for another syllable, away went the three dogs, heels over head, down the hill, and into the ravine, leaping and barking like mad creatures. One of them had suddenly caught a scent on the breeze; a second later espied with his keen eye a large tawny animal stealthily crossing the dried-up rivulet below. The trio were on full jump after it at once, like four-legged tornadoes. It seemed to be springing and dashing ahead of them like a beast resolved to get away at any price. Captain Banner threw himself on Huckleberry, and clattered down after the dogs and it.
The dogs gained ground. "After him, Poncho!" shouted the Captain, wondering very much what "him" might stand for. All at once he heard a violent snarl and a loud yelp of pain. Poncho, the black dog, was on his back, struggling to regain his footing. Plainly the foe had bestowed a rousing whack with his paw upon the nearest pursuer, as a caution to come no closer. The chase, too, was slackened. The Captain came plunging along on his horse just in time to see a curious picture.
Rising up from the furze a few yards beyond was another flat rock. Upon that rock, with a thick thorn bush to defend him in the rear, half crouched, half stood, a great California lynx, all muscle, pluck, and grit, and seemingly full of fight from the end of his nose to the tip of his thick tail. The three dogs, including Poncho, leaped and bounded furiously around the rock, and barked with all their might and main; but they warily kept quite out of the reach of a dazzling set of teeth and enormous claws all displayed for action. The lynx remained compressed into the smallest possible space, growling and sputtering, and apparently contriving to look at each one of the three dogs at once. There was no doubt about it; he was clearly master of the field.
"Shame on you!" cried Captain Banner; "and three of you, too! At him, Turco; catch him by the throat, Poncho," he continued calling, while he prepared his lasso. But though, inspired by these encouragements, Turco, Poncho, and Red Jacket bayed and leaped up and about the lynx as if they would part company with their stout legs entirely, the great cat raised his thick paw and sputtered so savagely that all three beat a prudent retreat.
"Steady, Huckleberry!" came the Captain's voice. The lasso was thrown. Unluckily Huckleberry was nervous in such close relations to a lynx. He whined and started, and not the lynx, but poor Poncho, was successfully encircled by the flying noose, and rolled over, howling dismally and half choked. Nevertheless, this episode changed the current of the battle. The lynx realized that his enemy on horseback was more dangerous than the dogs. He sprang up and bounded away amongst the brush. The two free dogs tore after, and Captain Banner, hastily rescuing the gasping Poncho, spurred on too, coming up to the next battle-ground just when as close a rough-and-tumble fight as ever one could behold was under way.
The lynx had been overtaken. Turco had thrown himself upon him and pulled him down, while Red Jacket also sprang to his companion's help. But theirs was by no means the victory. The ground sloped considerably. The lynx grappled with his antagonists, and dragged them with him in his fall. The attacked and the attackers rolled down the ravine, an undistinguishable mass of legs and bodies, howling, spitting, snarling, and making the hair and fur fly to a degree that completely took away the Captain's breath, and made him wonder in what sort of condition the coveted skin would be when the struggle was over.
At one moment the lynx was under—now the dogs. Here leaped one of them, torn and bleeding, while his brother gladiator was dragged further along into the thicket, tugging to disengage himself from the gripping muscles that were rending and strangling him. But Poncho, comparatively fresh for a new onset, rushed up, and turned the tide of the fray. He fell upon the lynx like a small-sized tiger. Turco was freed, and the lynx, shaking off Poncho, gave a furious bound directly toward the Captain and Huckleberry (it was hard to say which was the more excited by this time), who were charging along well on the left. The lasso fell true at this second cast, though it had been an extremely hasty throw. The cord fell full over the furious creature's neck. It was taut in a second. The lynx struggled and gurgled, but it was too late.