The occupants of a few log cabins in the vicinity of the Bayou Manlatte, a tributary of the noble Bay of Pensacola, situated in the western part of the then territory of Florida, had been for some weeks annoyed by the mysterious disappearance of the cattle and goats, which constituted almost the only wealth of these rude countrymen; and the belated herdsman was frequently startled by the terrible half human cry of the dreaded panther, and the next morning, some one of the squatters would find himself minus of a number of cloven feet.  About this time I happened into the settlement on a hunting excursion, in company with another son of Nimrod, and learning the state of affairs, resolved, if possible, to rid the “clearing” of its pest, and bind new laurels on our brows.  The night before our arrival, a heifer had been killed within a few rods of the cabin, and the carcass dragged off toward the swamp, some two miles distant, leaving a broad trail to mark the destroyer’s path; this being pointed out to us, Ned and myself resolved to execute our enterprise without delay—­this was to “beard the lion in his den.”  Having carefully charged our rifles and pistols, and seen that our bowies were as keen as razors, we set out on the trail, which soon brought us to the edge of the Bayou Manlatte swamp—­which covers a surface of some thousands of acres, being a dense muddy hammock of teti, bay, magnolia, cane, grape vines, &c.  A perpetual twilight reigned beneath the dense foliage supported by the rank soil, and our hearts beat a few more pulsations to the minute, as we left the scorching glare of the noon day sun, and plunged into the gloomy fastnesses of the bear and alligator; to these latter gentlemen, whose clumsy forms were sprawling through the mud on every side, we gave no further heed other than to keep without the range of the deadly sweep of their powerful tails, with which they bring their unsuspecting prey within reach of their saw-like jaws; the bears we did not happen to meet, or we should most assuredly have given them some of the balls designed for the panthers.

Well, we followed the trail half a mile into the swamp, when on an elevated spot, we suddenly encountered the half-devoured body of the unfortunate heifer, apparently just deserted by the captors.  We cautiously advanced a few paces further over a pavement of bones, “clean scraped and meatless,” and entered an open space, when a sight met my eyes which certainly made me wish myself safe at home, or in fact, anywhere else but where I was.  About twenty-five feet from us we saw, instead of one, an old she-panther and two cubs nearly grown, while directly over them, on the blasted and sloping trunk of an immense gum-tree, crouched the “old he one of all,” lashing his sides fiercely with his tail, and snorting and spitting like an enraged cat, an example which was imitated by the three below.  Here was a dilemma, on the particularly sharp horns of which we found ourselves most uncomfortably situated.  To retreat