At the end of the trail. From left to right, James Dewar, Corporal Leslie Lane, Constable
“Pete’’ Peterson, and Percy Cliff, Game Department.

The dogs are of the cross bred variety, based on bloodhound stock and bred solely according

to their characteristics.

This constitutes what is probably the most valuable pack on the

North American continent today.

In a matter of minutes, the long,
erey boat was headed out toward
the village of Gibsons, and in less
time than it takes to tell, had run

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into the worst Squamish blizzard in
3) years.

That night, crew and dogs lay in
shelter behind the Shelter Isles,
waiting for the howling wind to
die.

By noon of the folowing day
they managed to land and set the
dogs down in three feet of straw
bought for that purpose and spread
in Pete’s garage.

With the first grey streaks of an
even greyer dawn breaking over the
jagged mountain horizon, the four-
man hunting party was on the trail.

Within minutes, Spot had taken
the scent and led the eager hounds
to where a full grown, two-year-old
kitten had treed.

Perey Cliff would never miss
now. The great cat’s body landed
in the snow, with a dull thud.

As is the custom with these men,
a post mortem was held on the spot.
By this and other means does the
department keep track of the num-
ber of kills which should be laid at
the door of the cats. Within half
an hour the job was finised and
the eager hounds were again turned
loose.

Spot it was that first picked up
the scent. With a long-drawn howl
of revenge the great dog pointed
the lead and headed through the
thick underbrush.

A deep ravine stopped the party
for some time, as it did the dogs,

but not Spot. That great hound was
far in the lead and hot on the trail.
His eager challenging bay carried
down wind to the hunters as they
serambled in his wake.

A dull throb of premonition
coursed through Jimmy Dewar’s
mind as he listened to his famous
dog’s eries.

““Spot’s got him cornered,’’ he
growled to Constable Peterson.
“But ... may be that’s too bad
for Spot. That dog don’t know
when to quit!”

How prophetie were those words
borne out some few minutes later
when the party broke through the
underbrush into a _ freshly made
clearing.

MUTE TESTIMONY TO A
GREAT BATTLE

The snow had been packed solid
by the paws of cougar “‘she’’ and
the hunting dog. The red of blood
was everywhere. Soaking the white
‘blanket, it spotted high on the
trees, mute testimony to the great
battle between the queen of cats
and the courageous hound.

Without thought for himself, the
unarmed Dewar strode below. where
the crouching eat lay balefully
watching the hounds, and knelt at
the side of his faithful dog. With
tender thought the bie hand went
out in a fond, farewell pat. Spot
had been cornered between two
saplings. One stroke of the killing
cougar’s paw had crushed the brave
dog’s head.

Again the woods rang to the
spiteful bark of the .30 calibre rifle.
In silent grief the party turned and
retraced its steps in the gathering
dusk. It was dark and they could
no longer hunt.

“VLL GET THAT CAT IF I
STAY HERE FOREVER”’

Said heartbroken Dewar that
night, ‘‘T’ll get that other eat if
IT have to stay here forever.’’ And
no one doubted his word.

Hounds and men were on the
trail again in the morning. The

early farmyard roosters were still
waking the world when the grim
party headed into the woods on
the trail of the lone remaining eat.

There was an air of doom about
the stern-faced men and the slow

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