One of the trackers gave me his horse, and Pepe Ratto led the way down the
stream for a short distance and then into thick scrub that seemed to be
part of wild life's natural sanctuary, so quiet it lay, so dense and
undisturbed. After the first five minutes I was conscious of the forest in
an aspect hitherto unknown to me; I was aware that only a man who knew the
place intimately could venture to make a path through untrodden growths
that were left in peace from year to year. It was no haphazard way, though
bushes required careful watching, the double-thorned lotus being too
common for comfort.
[Illustration: A NIGHT SCENE, MOGADOR]
My companion's eye, trained to the observation of the woodlands in every
aspect, noted the stories told by the bushes, the gravel, and the sand
with a rapidity that was amazing. Twenty-five years of tireless hunting
have given Pepe Ratto an instinct that seems to supplement the ordinary
human gifts of sight and hearing. Our forefathers, who hunted for their
living, must have had this gift so developed, and while lying dormant in
Europeans, whose range of sports is compassed by the life of cities and
limited game preserves, it persists among the men who devote the best
years of their life to pitting their intelligence against that of the
brute creation.
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