Part 1 — The Hawk's Nest.

(Sierras.)

We checked our pace,—the red road sharply rounding; We heard the troubled flow Of the dark olive depths of pines, resounding A thousand feet below.

Above the tumult of the cañon lifted, The gray hawk breathless hung; Or on the hill a wingèd shadow drifted Where furze and thorn-bush clung;

Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed With many a seam and scar; Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed,— A mole-hill seen so far.

We looked in silence down across the distant Unfathomable reach: A silence broken by the guide's consistent And realistic speech.

"Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters For telling him he lied; Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos Across the long Divide.

"We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, And 'cross the ford below; And up this cañon (Peters' brother leadin'), And me and Clark and Joe.

"He fou't us game: somehow, I disremember Jest how the thing kem round; Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember From fires on the ground.

"But in one minute all the hill below him Was just one sheet of flame; Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him. And,—well, the dog was game!

"He made no sign: the fires of hell were round him, The pit of hell below. We sat and waited, but never found him; And then we turned to go.

"And then—you see that rock that's grown so bristly With chaparral and tan— Suthin' crep' out: it might hev been a grizzly, It might hev been a man;

"Suthin' that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted In smoke and dust and flame; Suthin' that sprang into the depths about it, Grizzly or man,—but game!

"That's all. Well, yes, it does look rather risky, And kinder makes one queer And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey Ain't a bad thing right here!"