A Mountain Lion

We have lost count of time, and can only agree on the fact that the date is somewhere near the end of November.  Our life has settled down into serenity, and our singular and enforced partnership is very pleasant.  We might be three men living together, but for the unvarying courtesy and consideration which they show to me.  Our work goes on like clockwork; the only difficulty which ever arises is that the men do not like me to do anything that they think hard or unsuitable, such as saddling a horse or bringing in water.  The days go very fast; it was 3:30 today before I knew that it was 1.  It is a calm life without worries.  The men are so easy to live with; they never fuss, or grumble, or sigh, or make a trouble of anything.  It would amuse you to come into our wretched little kitchen before our disgracefully late breakfast, and find Mr. Evans busy at the stove frying venison, myself washing the supper-dishes, and Mr. Buchan drying them, or both the men busy at the stove while I sweep the floor.  Our food is a great object of interest to us, and we are ravenously hungry now that we have only two meals a day.  About sundown each goes forth to his “chores” — Mr. K. to chop wood, Mr. B. to haul water, I to wash the milk-pans and water the horses.  On Saturday the men shot a deer, and on going for it today they found nothing but the hind legs, and following a track which they expected would lead them to a beast’s hole, they came quite carelessly upon a large mountain lion, which, however, took itself out of their reach before they were sufficiently recovered from their surprise to fire at it.  These lions, which are really a species of puma, are bloodthirsty as well as cowardly.  Lately one got into a sheepfold in the canyon of the St. Vrain, and killed thirty sheep, sucking the blood from their throats.

I.L.B.