Uncle Lance yielded, and we rode back to the ranch.  The next morning our party included the three daughters of our host.  Don Pierre led the way on a roan stallion, and after two hours’ riding we crossed the San Miguel to the north of his ranch.  A few miles beyond we entered some chalky hills, interspersed with white chaparral thickets which were just bursting into bloom, with a fragrance that was almost intoxicating.  Under the direction of our host, we started to beat a long chain of these thickets, and were shortly rewarded by hearing the pack give mouth.  The quarry kept to the cover of the thickets for several miles, impeding the chase until the last covert in the chain was reached, where a fight occurred with the lead hound.  Don Pierre was the first to reach the scene, and caught several glimpses of a monster puma as he slunk away through the Brazil brush, leaving one of the Don’s favorite hounds lacerated to the bone.  But the pack passed on, and, lifting the wounded dog to a vaquero’s saddle, we followed, lustily shouting to the hounds.

The spoor now turned down the San Miguel, and the pace was such that it took hard riding to keep within hearing.  Mr. Vaux and Uncle Lance usually held the lead, the remainder of the party, including the girls, bringing up the rear.  The chase continued down stream for fully an hour, until we encountered some heavy timber on the main Frio, our course having carried us several miles to the north of the McLeod ranch.  Some distance below the juncture with the San Miguel the river made a large horseshoe, embracing nearly a thousand acres, which was covered with a dense growth of ash, pecan, and cypress.  The trail led into this jungle, circling it several times before leading away.  We were fortunately able to keep track of the chase from the baying of the hounds without entering the timber, and were watching its course, when suddenly it changed; the pack followed the scent across a bridge of driftwood on the Frio, and started up the river in full cry.

As the chase down the San Miguel passed beyond the mouth of the creek, Theodore Quayle and Frances Vaux dropped out and rode for the McLeod ranch.  It was still early in the day, and understanding their motive, I knew they would rejoin us if their mission was successful.  By the sudden turn of the chase, we were likely to pass several miles south of the home of my sweetheart, but our location could be easily followed by the music of the pack.  Within an hour after leaving us, Theodore and Frances rejoined the chase, adding Tony Hunter and Esther to our numbers.  With this addition, I lost interest in the hunt, as the course carried us straightaway five miles up the stream.  The quarry was cunning and delayed the pack at every thicket or large body of timber encountered.  Several times he craftily attempted to throw the hounds off the scent by climbing leaning trees, only to spring down again.  But the pack were running wide and the ruse was only tiring the hunted.  The scent at times left the river and circled through outlying mesquite groves, always keeping well under cover.  On these occasions we rested our horses, for the hunt was certain to return to the river.