I gave Lee instructions to go about in his own way buying teams, saddle horses, and wagons.  For Christmas I sent him a .35 Remington rifle.  Mr. Haught got instructions to add some new dogs to his pack.  I sent Edd also a .35 Remington, and made Nielsen presents of two guns.  In January Nielsen and I went to Picacho, on the lower Colorado river, and then north to Death Valley.  So that I kept in touch with these men and did not allow their enthusiasm to wane.  For myself and R.C.  I had the fun of ordering tents and woolen blankets, and everything that we did not have on our 1918 trip.  But owing to the war it was difficult to obtain goods of any description.  To make sure of getting a .30 Gov’t Winchester I ordered from four different firms, including the Winchester Co.  None of them had such a rifle in stock, but all would try to find one.  The upshot of this deal was that, when after months I despaired of getting any, they all sent me a rifle at the same time.  So I found myself with four, all the same caliber of course, but of different style and finish.  When I saw them and thought of the Haughts I had to laugh.  One was beautifully engraved, and inlaid with gold—­the most elaborate .30 Gov’t the Winchester people had ever built.  Another was a walnut-stocked, shot-gun butted, fancy checkered take-down.  This one I presented to R.C.  The third was a plain ordinary rifle with solid frame.  And the last was a carbine model, which I gave to Nielsen.

During the summer at Avalon I used to take the solid frame rifle, and climb the hills to practice on targets.  At Clemente Island I used to shoot at the ravens.  I had a grudge against ravens there for picking the eyes out of newly born lambs.  At five hundred yards a raven was in danger from me.  I could make one jump at even a thousand yards.  These .30 Gov’t 1906 rifles with 150-grain bullet are the most wonderful shooting arms I ever tried.  I became expert at inanimate targets.

From time to time I heard encouraging news from Lee about horses.  Edd wrote me about lion tracks in the snow, and lynx up cedar trees, and gobblers four feet high, and that there was sure to be a good crop of acorns, and therefore some bears.  He told me about a big grizzly cow-killer being chased and shot in Chevelon Canyon.  News about hounds, however, was slow in coming.  Dogs were difficult to find.  At length Haught wrote me that he had secured two; and in this same letter he said the boys were cutting trails down under the rim.

Everything pertaining to my cherished plans appeared to be turning out well.  But during this time I spent five months at hard work and intense emotional strain, writing the longest novel I ever attempted; and I over-taxed my endurance.  By the middle of June, when I finished, I was tired out.  That would not have mattered if I had not hurt my back in an eleven-hour fight with a giant broadbill swordfish.  This strain kept me from getting in my usual physical trim.  I could not climb the hills, or exert myself.  Swimming hurt me more than anything.  So I had to be careful and wait until my back slowly got better.  By September it had improved, but not enough to make me feel any thrills over horseback riding.  It seemed to me that I would be compelled to go ahead and actually work the pain out of my back, an ordeal through which I had passed before, and surely dreaded.