. Don't
spare me!"

"It was back in September, 1899," I said. "My wife and I were camping in
the high Sierra near Mt. Tallac. At this season rain is unknown, so we
took no tent. Each of us had a comfortable rubber bed and we placed
these about a foot or two apart. In the narrow alley between we put a
waterproof canvas, and on that each night we laid the guns.

"We had a couple of cowboys to look after the outfit. A fortnight had
gone by with sunny skies and calm autumn weather, when one evening it
began to blow. Black, lumpy clouds came up from the far-off sea; the
dust went whirling in little eddies, and when the sun went down it was
of a sickly yellowish. The horses were uneasy, throwing up their noses,
snorting softly and pricking their ears in a nervous way.

"Everything promised a storm in spite of the rule 'no rain in
September,' and we huddled into our tentless beds with such preparation
as we could make for rain.

"As night wore on the windstorm raged, and one or two heavy drops
spattered down. Then there was a loud snort or two and a plunge of the
nearest horse, then quiet.

"Next morning we found every horse gone, and halters and ropes broken,
while deep hoofprints showed the violence of the stampede which we had
scarcely heard. The men set out on foot after the horses, and by good
luck, recovered all within a mile. Meanwhile I made a careful study of
the ground, and soon got light. For there were the prints of a huge
Mountain Lion. He had prowled into camp, coming up to where we slept,
sneaked around and smelt us over, and--I think--walked down the alley
between our beds. After that, probably, he had got so close to the
horses that, inspired by terror of their most dreaded foe, they had
broken all bonds and stampeded into safety. Nevertheless, though the
horses were in danger, there can be no question, I think, that we were
not."

The reporter thought the situation more serious than I did, and
persisted that if I dug in my memory I should yet recall a really
perilous predicament, in which thanks to some wild brute, I was near
death's door. And as it proved he was right. I had nearly forgotten what
looked like a hairbreadth escape.

IN PERIL OF MY LIFE

It was on the same Sierra trip. Our outfit had been living for weeks
among the tall pines, subsisting on canned goods; and when at length we
came out on the meadows by Leaf Lake we found them enlivened by a small
herd of wild--that is, range-cattle