It took about all of the foreman’s skill and strength, assisted by Pete, to rope the deer on the pony, who had never packed game and who never intended to if he could help it.  And it was a nervous horse that Pete led down the long woodland trail as the shadows grew distorted and grim in the swiftly fading light Long before they reached the mesa level it was dark.  The trail was carpeted with needles of the pine and their going was silent save for the creak of the saddles and the occasional click of a hoof against an uncovered rock.  Pete’s horse seemed even more nervous as they made the last descent before striking the mesa.  “Somethin’ besides deer is bother’n’ him,” said Pete as they worked cautiously down a steep switchback.  The horse had stopped and was trembling.  Bailey glanced back.  “Up there!” he whispered, gesturing to the trail above them.  Pete had also been looking round, and before Bailey could speak again, a sliver of flame split the darkness and the roar of Pete’s six-gun shattered the eerie silence of the hillside.  Bailey’s horse plunged off the trail and rocketed straight down the mountain.  Pete’s horse, rearing from the hurtling shape that lunged from the trail above, tore the rope from his hand and crashed down the hillside, snorting.  Something was threshing about the trail and coughing horribly.  Pete would have run if he had known which way to run.  He had seen two lambent green dots glowing above him and had fired with that quick instinct of placing his shot—­the result of long practice.  The flopping and coughing ceased.  Pete, with cocked gun poked ahead of him, struck a match.  In its pale flare he saw the long gray shape of a mountain lien stretched across the trail.  Evidently the lion had smelled the blood of the deer, or the odor of the sweating horses—­a mountain lion likes horse-flesh better than anything else—­and had padded down the trail in the darkness, following as close as he dared.  The match flamed and spluttered out.  Pete wisely backed away a few paces and listened.  A little wind whispered in the pines and a branch creaked, but there came no sound of movement from the lion.  “I reckon I plugged him right!” muttered Pete.  “Wonder what made Jim light out in sech a hurry?” And, “Hey, Jim!” he called.

From far below came a faint Whoo! Halloo!  Then the words separate and distinct:  “I—­got—­your—­horse.”

“I—­got—­a—­lion,” called Pete shrilly.

“Who—­is lyin’—?” came from the depths below.

Pete grinned despite his agitation.  “Come—­on—­back!” shouted Pete.  He thought he heard Bailey say something like “damn,” but it may have been, “I am.”  Pete struck another match and stepped nearer the lion this time.  The great, lithe beast was dead.  The blunt-nose forty-five at close range had torn away a part of its skull.  “I done spiled the head,” complained Pete.  In the succeeding darkness he heard the faint tinkle of shod feet on the trail.