In riding over the island after wild goats or quail, one occasionally sees foxes, while the whir of the valley quail fills the air at times. For years there was a herd of mysterious burros that had run wild and defied capture. This may seem incredible, but those familiar with the gentle burro of the mainland have little or no idea of the speed attained by the same animal when he returns to nature.
I once rode upon these animals on the west side of the island, and, mounted on a good horse, made the attempt to catch them. There were three, one taller than the others. They stood and looked at me for a moment, the next we were in a whirlwind race over a bad country strewn with rocks. I certainly gained on them, but I was surprised to see how long it took. In the end I ran the burros down, and could possibly have roped one, when they dashed headlong down a steep caon and disappeared, relieving me of the embarrassment.