CHAPTER IX The Land of the Muscox A far cry it was from Bright June at Port Chippewaion, to dim October on Great Slave Lake, two long laborious months. Ray and Jones threaded the crooked shores of the Great Inland Sea, to halt at the extreme northern end, where a plunging outlet formed the source of a river. Here they found a stone chimney and fireplace standing among the dark and decayed ruins of a cabin. �We mustn't lose no time,� said Ray. �I feel the winter and the wind, and see how dark the days are getting on us.� �On front in Muscox,� replied Jones. �Man, we're facing the northern night. We're in the land of the midnight sun. Soon we'll be shut in for seven months a cabin we want, wood, and meat.� A forest of stunted spruce trees edged on the lake, and soon its dreary solitudes rang to the strokes of axes. The trees were small and uniform in size. Black stumps protruded here and there from the ground, showing work of the steel in time gone by. Jones observed that the living trees were no larger in diameter than the stumps and question ray in regard to the difference in age. �Cut twenty-five maybe fifty years ago,� said the trapper. But the living trees were no bigger. Trees and things no grow fast in Northland. They erected a fifteen-foot cabin around stone chimney, roofed it with poles and branches of spruce and a layer of sand, and digging near the fireplace Jones unearthed the rusty file and the head of a whiskey keg, upon which was a sunken word in unintelligible letters. �We've found a place,� said Rhea. �Franklin built a cabin here in eighteen-nineteen, and an eighteen-thirty-three captain back-wintered here, when he was in search of Captain Ross of the vessel Fury. It was those exploring parties that cut the trees. I seen Indian sign out there made last winter. I reckon, but Indian never cut down no trees.� The hutters completed the cabin, piled cords of firewood outside, stowed away the kegs of dried fish and fruits, the sacks of flour, boxes of crackers, canned meats and vegetables, sugar, salt, coffee, tobacco, all the cargo, then took the boat apart and carried it up the bank, which labor took them less than a week. Jones found sleeping in the cabin, despite the fire, uncomfortably cold, because of the white chinks between the logs. It was hardly better than sleeping under the swaying spruces. When he essayed to stop up the cracks, a task by no means easy considering the lack of material. Ray laughed his short ho-ho, and stopped him with the word �wait.� Every morning the green ice extended further out into the lake, the sun pale dim and dimmer, the nights grew colder. On a curate, the thermometer registered several degrees below zero. Felt a little more the next night and continued to fall. �Ho-ho!� cried Ray. She struck the toboggan. And presently she'll commence to slide. �Come on, buff, we've worked to do.� He caught up a bucket made for their hole in the ice. Rebroke a six-inch layer, the freeze of a few hours, and filling his bucket returned to the cabin, Jones had no inkling of the trapper's intention, and wonderingly he saussed his bucket full of water and followed. By the time he had reached the cabin a matter of some thirty or forty good paces, the water no longer splashed from his bail. For a thin film of ice prevented. Rea stood fifteen feet from the cabin, his back to the wind and through the water. Some of it froze in the air, most of it froze on the logs. The simple plan of the trapper to encase the cabin with ice was easily divined. All day the men worked, ceasing only when the cabin resembled a glistening mound. It had not a sharp corner nor crevice, inside it was warm and snug, and as light as when the chinks were open. A slight moderation of the weather brought the snow, such snow, a blinding white flutter of great flakes as large as feathers. All day they rustled softly. All night they swirled, sweeping, sweeping, seeping, brushing against the cabin. Ho, ho, roared Rea, tis good. Letters snow and the reindeer will migrate, will have fresh meat. The sun shone again, but not brightly. A nipping wind cut down out of the frigid north and crusted to snow, the third night following the storm when the hunters lay snug under their blankets, a commotion outside aroused them. Indians, said Rea, come north for reindeer. Half the night, shouting and yelling, barking of dogs, hauling of sleds and cracking of dried skin tepees, murdered sleep for those in the cabin. In the morning the level plain and edge of the forest held the Inundinium village. Caribou hides strung on forked poles, constituted tent-like habitations, and no distinguishable doors. Fire smoked in holes and of snow. Not till late in the day did any life manifest itself round the tree-peas, and then a group of children, poorly clad in ragged pieces of blankets, skins gaped at Jones. He saw their pinched brown faces staring hungry eyes, naked legs and throats, and noted particularly their dwarfish size. When he spoke they fled precipitously, a little way, then turned. He called again and all ran except one small land. Jones went into the cabin and came out with a handful of sugar or square lumps. Yellow-knife Indians, said Rea, a starved tribe. Were in for it. Jones made motions to the land, but he remained still, as if transfixed, and his black eyes stared wonderingly. LORNASU. White man good, said Rea. The lad came out of his trance and looked back at his companions who edged nearer. Jones ate a lump of sugar, then handed one to the Lillinian. He took it gingerly, put it in his mouth, and immediately jumped up and down. HOPI SHIM PAPOLI! HOPI SHIM PAPOLI! He shouted to his brothers and sisters. They came on the run. Think he means sweet salt, interpreted Rea. Of course these beggars never tasted sugar. A band of youngsters trooped around Jones, and after tasting the white lumps, shrieked in such delight that the braves and squaws shuffled out of the tree-peas.  They crowded into the path before the cabin door mumbled and stared and waited. No dignity, no brightness, no suggestion of friendliness marked this peculiar attitude. Starved, exclaimed Rea. They've come to the lake to invoke the Great Spirit to send the reindeer. But whatever you do, don't feed them. If you do, we'll have them on our hands all winter. It's cruel, but man, we're in the North. Notwithstanding the practical trappers admonation, Jones could not resist the pleading of the children. He could not stand by and see them starve. After ascertaining there was absolutely nothing to eat in the tepees, he invited older ones into the cabin and made a great pot of soup, into which he dropped compressed biscuits. The savage children were like wildcats. Jones had to call Rea to assist him in keeping the famished little aborigines from tearing each other to pieces. When finally they were all fed, they had to be driven out of the cabin. That's new to me, said Jones' poor little beggars. Rea doubtfully shook his shaggy head. Next day Jones traded with the Yellowknives. He had a good supply of bubbles besides blankets, gloves, and boxes of canned goods, which he had brought for such trading. He secured a dozen of the large boned white and black Indian dogs, huskies. Rea called him two long sleds with harnesses and several pairs of snowshoes. This trade made Jones rub his hands in satisfaction. For during all the long journey north he had failed to barter for such cardinal necessities to the success of his venture. But of gold out the grub to them in rations, grumbled Rea. Twenty-four hours suffice to show Jones the wisdom of the trappers' words, for in just that time the crazed, ignorant savages had gutted the generous store of food which should have lasted them for weeks. The next day they were begging at the cabin door. Rea cursed and threatened them with his fist. But they returned again and again. Days passed. All the time in light and dark the Indians filled the air with dismal chant and doleful incarnations to the Great Spirit and the tum-tum-tum of the tom-toms. A specific feature of their wild prayer for food. But the white monotony of the rolling land and the level lake remained unbroken. The reindeer did not come. The days became shorter, dimmered, darker. The mercury kept on the slide. Forty degrees below zero did not trouble the Indians. They stamped till they dropped. Then sang, till their voices vanished and beat the tom-toms everlastingly. Jones fed the children once each day against the trappers' advice. One day, while Rea was absent, a dozen brave succeeded in forcing an entrance and clamored so fiercely and threatened so desperately that Jones was on the point of giving them food when the door opened to admit Rea. With a glance he saw the situation. He dropped the bucket he carried through the door wide open and commenced action. Because of his great bulk he seemed slow but every blow of his sledgehammer fist knocked a brave against the wall or through the door into the snow. When he could reach two savages at once by way of diversion he swung their heads together with a crack. They dropped like sacks of corn, pitching them out into the snow. In two minutes the cabin was clear. He banged the door and slipped the bar in place. But? I'm going to get mad at these thieving redskins some day, he said gruffly. The expanse of his chest heaved slightly like the slow swell of a calm ocean, but there was no other indication of unusual exertion. Jones laughed and again gave thanks for the comradeship of this strange man. Shortly afterward he went out for wood and, as usual, scanned the expanse of the lake, the sun shone, misty-er and wainer, and frost feathers floated in the air. Sky and sun and plain and lake all were gray. Jones fancied he saw a distant moving mass of darker shade than the gray background. He called the trapper. Herb said gray instantly. The vanguard of the migration. Hear the Indians? Hear the cry? Aton, aton. They mean reindeer.  The caribou will keep to the ice, and man or Indian can't stop them there. For a few moments his companion surveyed the lake and shore with a plainsman's eye, then dashed with him to reappear with a winchester in each hand, through the crowd of bewailing, bemoaning Indians he sped, to the low, dying bank. The hard crust of snow upheld him. The gray cloud was a thousand yards out upon the lake, and moving south-east. If the caribou did not swerve from this course, they would pass close to a projecting point of land, a half mile up the lake. So keeping a wary eye upon them, the hunter ran swiftly. He had not hunted antelope and buffalo on the plains all his life without learning how to approach moving game. As long as the caribou were in action, they could not tell whether he moved or was motionless. In order to tell if an object was inanimate or not, they must stop to see, of which fact the keen hunter took advantage.  He stopped running, to stand like a stump. When the reindeer moved again he moved, and when they slackened again he stopped and became motionless. As they kept to their course he worked gradually closer and closer. Soon he distinguished gray bobbing heads. When the leader showed signs of halting in his slow trot, the hunter again became a statue. He saw they were easy to deceive and daringly confident of success. He encroached on the ice and closed up the gap, till not more than two hundred yards separated him from the gray, bobbing, antlered mass. Jones dropped to one knee, a moment only his eyes lingered admiring on the wild and beautiful of spectacle. Then he swept one of the rifles to a level. Old habit made the little beaded sight cover first the stately leader. Bang! The gray monarch leaped.  Then for a few moments the Winchester spat a deadly stream of fire, and when emptied was thrown down for the other gun, which in the steady, sure hands of the hunter belched death to the caribou.  When Jones reached the caribou he saw several young ones trying to rise on crippled legs, with his knife he killed these, not without some hazard to himself. Most of the fallen ones were already dead and the others soon lay still. Beautiful gray creatures they were almost white, with wide-reaching symmetrical horns. A medley of yells rose from the shore, and Ray appeared running with two sleds, with the whole tribe of yellow knives pouring out of the forest behind But you're just what old Jim said you was, thundered Ray, as he surveyed the gray pile. Here's winter meat, and I'd have not given a biscuit for all the meat I thought you'd get. Thirty shots in less than thirty seconds, said Jones, and I'll bet every ball I sent touched here. How many reigned here? Twenty. Twenty. But for all forget how to count. I guess maybe you can't handle them shooting arms. Here comes the howl and redskins. Ray whipped out his bowie knife and began disemboweling the reindeer. He had not proceeded far on his task when the gray savages were around him. Everyone carried a basket or receptacle which he swung aloft, and they sang prey rejoiced on their knees. Jones turned away from the sickening scenes that convinced him these savages were a little better than cannibals. Ray cursed them and tumbled them over, and threatened them with the big bowie, an altercation ensued. Heated on his side, frenzied on theirs, thinking some treachery might befall his comrades. Jones ran into the thick of the group. Share with him. Ray, share with him. Whereupon the giant hauled out ten smoking carcasses. Bursting into a babble of savage glee and tumbling over one another, the Indians pulled the caribou to the shore. They even fools growled Ray, wiping the sweat from his brow. Said they'd prevailed on the great spirit to send the reindeer. Why, they'd never smelled warm meat but for you. Numb up. They'll gorge every hair, hide and hoof, of their share in less than a week. That's the last we'd do for the damned cannibals. Didn't you see them eating of the rom innards? I'm calculating. We'll see no more reindeer. It's late in the migration. The big herd is driven southward. But we're lucky. Thanks to your prairie training. Come on now, with the sleds or we'll have a pack of wolves to fight. By loading three reindeer on each sled the hunters were not long in transporting them to the cabin. Buff, there ain't much doubt about them keeping nice and cool, said Ray. They'll freeze and weaken skin when we want. That night the starved wolf dogs gorged themselves till they could not rise from the snow. Likewise the yellow knives feasted. How long the ten reindeer might have served the wasteful tribe Ray and Jones never found out. Next day two Indians arrived with dog trains and their advent was hailed with another feast and a powwow that lasted into the night. Guess we're going to get rid of our blasted hungry neighbors, said Ray, coming in next morning with the water pail.  Them Indians was messengers. Grab your gun and we'll walk over and see. The yellow knives were breaking camp and the hunters were at once conscious of the difference in their bearing. Ray addressed several braves but got no reply. He laid his broad hand on the old wrinkled chief, who repulsed him and turned his back. With a growl the trafers spun the Indian around and spoke as many words of the language as he knew. He got a cold response which ended in the ragged old chiefs starting up, stretching a long dark-arm northward and his eyes fixed in fanatical subjection and shout, NARZA! NARZA! NARZA! Heathen. Ray shook his gun in the faces of the messengers. It'll go bad with you to come Nazian any longer on our trail. Come, Buff. Clear out before I get mad. When they were once more in the cabin, Ray told Jones that the messengers had been sent to warn the yellow knives not to aid the white hunters in any way. That night the dogs were kept inside and the men took turns in watching. Morning showed a broad trail southward, and with the going of the yellow knives the mercury dropped to fifty, and the long twilight winter night fell. So with this agreeable riddance and plenty of meat and fuel to cheer them, the hunters sat down in their snug cabin to wait many months for daylight. Those few intervals when the wind did not blow were the only times Ray and Jones got out of doors. To the plainsmen, new to the north, the dim gray world about him, was of exceeding interest. Out of the twilight shone a wand, round, lusterless ring, that Ray said was the sun. Silence and desolation were heart-numbing. Where are the wolves? asked Jones of Ray. Wolves can't live on snow. They're further south after Caribou, or further north after Muscox. In those few still intervals Jones remained out as long as he dared. With the mercury sinking to sixty degrees he turned from the wonder of the unreal remote sun to the marvel of the north, Aurora Borealis, ever-present, ever-changing, ever-beautiful, and he gazed in rapt detention. Poor lights, said Ray, as if he were speaking of biscuits. You'll freeze if it's getting cold. Cold it became to the matter of seventy degrees. Frost covered the walls of the cabin in the roof, except for over the fire. The reindeer were harder than iron. A knife or an axe, a steel trap burned as if it had been heated in fire, and stuck to the hand. The hunters experienced trouble in breathing. The air hurt their lungs. The months dragged. Ray grew more silent day by day, and as he sat before the fire his wide shoulders sagged lower and lower, Jones unaccustomed to the waiting. The restraint, the barrier of the north, worked on guns, sleds, harnesses. Till he felt he would go mad. Then to save his mind he constructed a wind mill of caribou hides, and pondered over it. Trying to invent, to put into practical use an idea he had once conceived. Hour after hour he laid under his blankets unable to sleep and listened to the north wind. Sometime Ray mumbled any slumbers. Once his giant form started up and he muttered a woman's name, shadows from the fire flickered on the walls, visionary. Spectral shadows, cold and gray, fitting the north. At such times he longed with all the power of his soul to be among those scenes far southward, which he called home. For days Ray never spoke a word, only gazed into the fire aid and slept. Jones drifting far from his real self veered the strange mood of the trapper and sought to break it, but without a veil. More and more he reproached himself and singularly on the one fact that, as he did not smoke himself, he had brought only a small store of tobacco. Ray, inordinate and inveterate smoker, had puffed away all the weed and clouds of white, then had relapsed into gloom. The north dimmed, the obscure gray shade lifted, the hope in the south brightened and the merc reclined, reluctantly, with a tyrant's hate to relinquish power. Spring weather at twenty-five below zero. On April twelfth a small band of Indians made their appearance, of the dog tribe, were they an offcast of the great slaves according to Ray, and as motley, staring and starved as the yellow knives. But they were friendly, which presupposed ignorance of the white hunters, and Ray persuaded the strongest brave to accompany them as guide northward after Muskoxon. On April sixteenth, having given the Indians several caribou carcasses and assuring them that the cabin was protected by white spirits, Ray and Jones, each with sled and train of dogs, started out after their guide, who was similarly equipped over the glistening snow toward the north. They made sixty miles the first day and pitched their Indian T.P. on the shores of Artilry Lake. Travelling northeast, they covered its white waist of one hundred miles in two days. Then a day due north, overrolling monotonously snowy plain devoid of rock, tree, or shrub, brought them into a country of the strangest, queerest little spruce trees, very slender, and none of them over fifteen feet in height. A primeval forest of saplings. "'Titchen, nichula,' said the guide. Land of Styx Little,' translated Ray. An occasional reindeer was seen in numerous foxes and hares, trotted off into the woods, evincing more curiosity than fear. All were silver-white, even the reindeer, at a distance, taking the hue of the north. Once a beautiful creature, unblemished as the snow, it trod, ran, up a ridge and stood watching the hunters. It resembled a monster dog. Only was inexpressibly more wild looking. "'Oh, there you are,' cried Ray, reaching for his Winchester, Huller-Wolf.  As if the wolf understood, he lifted his white, sharp head and uttered a bark or howl. That was like nothing so much as a haunting, unearthly morn. The animal then merged into the white, as if he were really a spirit of the world whence his cries seemed to come. In this ancient forest of youthful appearing trees, the hunters cut firewood to the full carrying capacity of the sleds. For five days the Indian guide drove his dogs over the smooth crust, and on the sixth day, about noon, halting in a hollow, he pointed to tracks in the snow and called out, Egatir, Egatir, Egatir. The hunters saw sharply defiant hoof marks, not unlike the tracks of reindeer, except that they were longer. The teepee was set up on the spot, and the dogs unharnessed. The Indian led the way with the dogs, and Ray and Jones followed, slipping over the hard crust, without sinking in and traveling swiftly. Soon the guide pointed again and let out a cry, Egatir, at the same moment loosing the dogs. Some few hundred yards down the hollow, a number of large black animals, not unlike the shaggy humpy buffalo, lumbered over the snow. Jones echoed Ray's yell and broke into a run, easily distancing the puffing giant. The musk oxen squared round to the dogs, and were soon surrounded by the yelping pack. Jones came up to find six old bulls, uttering grunts of rage and shaking ram-like horns at their tormentors. Notwithstanding that, this for Jones was his, accumulation of years of desire, the crowning moment, the climax, and fruition of long harbored dreams. He halted before the tame and helpless beasts, with joy not unmixed with pain. It will be murder, he exclaimed. It's like shooting down sheep. Ray came crashing up behind him and yelled, Get busy! We need fresh meat, and I want the skins. The bull succumbed to well-directed shots, and the Indian and Ray hurried back to camp, with the dogs to fetch the sleds. While Jones examined with warm interest the animals he had wanted to see all his life. He found the largest bull approached within a third of the size of a buffalo. He was of a brownish-black color and very like a large woolly ram. His head was broad for sharp, small ears, the horns, had wide and flattened bases, and lay flat on the head, to run down back of the eyes, then curve forward to a sharp point. Like the bison, the muck-scocks, had short, heavy limbs, covered with very long hair and small, hard hooves, with tarry tufts inside the curve of bone, which probably served as pads or checks, to hold the hoof firm on ice. His legs seemed out of proportion to his body. Two musk oxen were loaded on a sled and hauled to camp in one trip. Skinning them was but a short work for such expert hands. All the choice-cuts of meat were saved. No time was lost in broiling a steak, which they found sweet and juicy, with the flavor of musk that was disagreeable. Now Ray, for the calves, exclaimed Jones, and then were homeward bound. I hate to tell this Redskin, replied Ray. He'll be like the others. But it ain't likely he'll desert us here. He's far from his base, with nothing but that old musket. Ray then commanded the attention of the brave, and began to mingle the great slave and yellow-knife languages. Of this mixture Jones knew but a few words. I get here at Nietzsche, which Ray kept repeating. He knew, however, meant musk oxen little. The guide stared, suddenly appeared to get Ray's meaning, and vigorously shook his head and gazed at Jones in fear and horror. Following this came an action as singular as inexplicable. Slowly rising he faced the north, lifted his hand, and remained statuesque in his immobility. Then he began deliberately packing his blankets and traps on a sled. Which had not been unhitched from the train of dogs. Jack away to Jola, he said and pointed south. Jack away to Jola, echoed Ray. The damned Indian said wife sticks none. He's going to quit his. What do you think of that? His wife's out of wood. Jack away, out of wood, and here we are, two days from the Arctic's ocean. Jones, the damned heathen, don't go back. The trapper coolly cocked his rifle, the savage who plainly saw and understood the action, never flinched. He turned his breast to Ray, and there was nothing in his demeanor to suggest his relation to a craven tribe.  Why not? I'd like to know. Demanded Ray, as if he were considering the fate of a threatening beast.  Let him go, said Jones. We are here on the ground. We have dogs and meat. We'll get our calves and reach the lake as soon as he does, and we might get there before. Maybe we will, growled Ray. No vacillation attended the Indians' mood. From a friendly guide, he who had suddenly been transformed into a dark, sullen savage. He refused the musk ox meat, offered by Jones, and he pointed south and looked at the white hunters as if he asked them to go with him. Both men shook their heads in answer.  He then leaped upon his sled, lashed his dogs into a run, and without looking back, disappeared to a ridge. The musk ox hunter sat long silent. Finally Ray shook his shaggy locks and roared, oh-ho-ho, jack-a-way out of wood. Jack-a-way out of wood. Jack-a-way out of wood. On a day following the desertion, Jones found tracks to the north of the camp, making a broad trail in which were numerous little imprints that sent him flying back to get Ray and the dogs. Musk oxen, in great numbers, had passed in a night, and Jones and Ray had not trailed the herd a mile before they had it in sight. When the dogs burst into full cry, the musk oxen climbed a high knoll and squared about to give battle. Cavs, calves, calves, cried Jones. Hold back, hold back. That's a big herd and they'll show fight. As good fortune would have it, the herd split up into several sections, and one part hard-pressed by the dogs ran down the knoll to be cornered under the lee of a bank. The hunters seeing a small number hurried again upon them to find three cows and five badly frightened little calves backed against the bank of snow, with small red eyes fastened on the barking, snapping dogs. To a man of Jones's experience and skill, the capturing of the calves was a ridiculous, the easy piece of work. The cows tossed their heads, watched the dogs, and forgot they're young. The first cast of the lasso settled over the neck of a little fellow. Jones hauled him out over the slippery snow and laughed as he bound the hairy legs. In less time than he had taken to capture one buffalo calf with half the effort, he had all the little musk oxen bound fast. Then he signaled his feet by peeling out an Indian yellow victory. Buff, we got him, cried Ray, and now for the hell of it, getting him home. I'll fetch the sleds. You might as well down that best cow for me. I can use another skin. Of all Jones's prizes of captured wild beasts which numbered nearly every species common to western North America, he took greatest pride in the little musk oxen. In truth, so great had been his passion to capture some of these rare and inaccessible mammals that he considered the day's work the fulfillment of his life's purpose. He was happy. Never had he been so delighted as when the very evening of their captivity, the musk oxen, eventing no particular fear of him, began to dig with sharp hooves into the snow for moss. And they found moss and ate it, which solved Jones's greatest problem. He had hardly dared to think how to feed them, and here they were, picking sustenance out of the frozen snow. Ray, will you look at that? Ray, will you look at that? He kept repeating. See, they're hunting for feed. And the giant, with his rare smile, watched him play with the calves. They were about two and a half feet high, and resembled long-haired sheep. The ears and horn-winter are undiscernible, and they're color considerably lighter than that of the matured beasts. No sense of fear of man, said the life-student of animals. But they shrink from the dogs. In packing for the journey south, the captives were strapped on the sleds. This circumstance necessitated a sacrifice of meat and wood, which brought grave, doubtful shakes of Ray's great head. Days of hastening over the icy snow with short hours of sleep and rest passed before the hunters awoke to the consciousness that they were lost. The meat they had packed had gone to feed themselves and the dogs. Only a few sticks of wood were left. Better kill a calf and cook meat while we've got a little wood left, suggested Ray. Kill one of my calves and starve first, cried Jones. The hungry giant said no more. They headed southwest. All about them glared the grim monotony of the artyx. No rock or bush or tree made a welcome mark upon the hoary plain. Wonderland of frost, white marble desert, infinitude of gleaming silences. Snow began to fall, making the dog flounder, obliterating the sun by which they traveled. They camped to wait for clearing weather. Biscuits soaked in tea made their meal. Had Don Jones crawled out of the teepee. The snow had ceased. But where were the dogs? He yelled an alarm. Then little mounds of white scattered here and there became animated. He rocked and rose to fall to pieces, exposing the dogs. Blankets of snow had been their covering. Ray had ceased his chuck away out of wood, or a reiterated question. Where are the wolves? Lost, replied Jones in hollow humor. Near the close of that day in which they had resumed travel from the crest of a ridge, they described a long low, underletting dark line. Proved to be the forest of the little sticks, where with grateful assurance of fire and of soon finding their old trail they made camp. Before biscuits left in enough tea for one drink each, said Ray, I calculate we're two hundred miles from Great Slave Lake. Where are the wolves? At that moment the night wind waved through the forest a long haunting mourn. The calves shifted uneasily. The dogs raised sharp noses to sniff the air, and Ray, settling back against the tree, cried out, Ho-ho! Again the savage sound a keen wailing note, with the hunger of the Northland inner, broke the cold silence. You'll see a pack of real wolves in a minute, said Ray. Soon a swift pattering of feet down a forest slope brought him to his feet with a curse, to reach a brawny hand for his rifle. White streaks crossed the black of the tree trunks. Then, in distinct forms, the color of snow swept up, spread out, and streaked to and fro. Jones thought the great God pure white beast, the spectral werewolves of Ray's fantasy, for they were silent, and silent wolves must belong to dreams only. Ho-ho! yelled Ray. There's green fire eyes for you, buff. Hill itself ain't nothing to these white devils. Get the calves into T.P. and stand ready to lose the dogs for we've got to fight. Raising his rifle he opened fire upon the white foe. A struggling rustling sound followed the shots. But whether it was the threshing about a wolf, dying in agony, or the fighting of the fortunate ones over those shot, could not be ascertained in the confusion. Following his example Jones also fired rapidly on the other side of the T.P. The same inarticulate silently rustling rustle succeeded his volley. Wait! cried Ray. Reese Barron of Cartridge's. The dogs trained at their chains and bravely bade the wolves. The hunters heaped logs and brush on the fire, which, blazing up, sent a bright light far into the woods. On the outer edge of the circle moved the white, restless, gliding forms. They're more afraid of fire than us, said Jones. So it proved. When the fire burned and crackled they kept well in the background. The hunters had a long respite from serious anxiety, during which time they collected all the available wood at hand. But at midnight, when this had been mostly consumed, the wolves grew bold again. Have any shots left for the forty-five ninety, besides what's in the magazine? Ask, Ray. Yes, good handful. Well, get busy. With careful aim Jones emptied the magazine into the gray, gliding, groping mass. The same rustling shuffling, almost silenced, dry, ensued. Ray, there's something uncanny about those brutes, a silent pack of wolves. Oh! rolled the giant's answer through the woods. For the present the attack appeared to have been effectually blocked. The hunters, sparingly adding a little to their fast diminishing pile of fuel to the fire, decided to lie down for much needed rest but not for sleep. How long they lay there, cramped by the calves, listening for stealthy steps, neither could tell. It might have been moments, and it might have been hours. All at once came a rapid rush of pattering feet, succeeded by a chorus of angry barks, then a terrible commingling of savage snarls, growls, snaps, and yelps. Out, yelled Ray. They're on the dogs. Jones pushed his cocked rifle ahead of him and straightened up outside the teepee. A wolf, large as a panther and white as the gleaming snow, sprang at him, even as he discharged his rifle right against the breast of the beast. He saw its dripping jaws, its wicked green eyes, like spurts of fire and felt its hot breath. It fell at its feet and writhed in a death struggle. Slender bodies of black and white, whirling and tussled together, sent out fiendish uproar. Ray threw a blazing stick of wood among them, which sizzled as it met the furry coats. And brandishing another, he ran into the thick of the fight. Unable to stand the proximity of fire, the wolf bolted and loped off into the woods. What a huge brute, exclaimed Jones, dragging the one he had shot into the light. It was a superb animal, thin, supple, strong, with a coat of frosty fur, very long and fine. Ray began at once to skin it, remembering that he hoped to find other pelts in the morning. Though the wolf remained in the vicinity of camp, none ventured near. The dogs moaned and whined, their restlessness increased as dawn approached. And when the gray light came, Jones found that some of them had been badly lacerated by the fangs of the wolves. Ray hunted for dead wolves and found not so much as a piece of white fur. Soon the hunters were speeding southward. Other than a disposition to fight among themselves, the dogs showed no evil effects of the attack. They were lashed to their best speed. For Ray said the white rangers of the north would never quit their trail. All day the men listened for the wild, lonesome haunting mourn. But it came not. A wonderful halo of white and gold, that Ray called a sun-dog, hung in the sky all afternoon, and dazzlingly bright over the dazzling world of snow, circled and glowed, a mocking sun, brother of the desert mirage, beautiful allusion, smiling cold, out of the polar blue. The first pale evening star twinkled in the east, when the hunters made camp on the shore of artillery lake. At dusk the clear silent air opened to the sound of a long, haunting moan. Ho, ho, ho! called Ray. His hoarse, deep voice rang defiance of the foe. While he built a fire before the T.P., Jones strode up and down, suddenly to whip out his knife and make for the tame little musk oxen, now digging in the snow. Then he reeled abruptly and held out the blade to Ray. What for?  I can't, so you do it. Kill one of our calves, roared Ray?  I ain't commenced to get hungry. Besides, the wolves are going to eat us calves and all. Nothing more was said. They ate their last biscuit. Jones packed the calves away in the T.P. and turned to the dogs. All day they had worried him. Something was amiss with them. And even as he went among them a fierce fight broke out. Jones saw it was unusual, for the attacked dog showed craven fear, and the attacking ones a howling, savage intensity that surprised him. Then one of the vicious brutes rolled his eyes, frost at the mouth, shuddered and leapt in his harness, vented a hoarse howl, and fell back, shaking and retching. My God, Ray! cried Jones in horror. Come here, look. That dog is dying of rabies, hydrophobia. The white wolves have hydrophobia.  And that one ain't all. Look, buff, look at him green eyes. Didn't I say the white wolf would hell?  Jones shot the dog and soon afterwards three more that manifested signs of the disease. It was an awful situation to kill all the dogs meant simply to sacrifice his life and Ray's. It meant a banding hope of ever reaching the cabin. Then to risk being bitten by one of the poisoned maddened brutes to risk the most horrible of agonizing deaths. That was even worse. Ray, we've got one chance, cried Jones with pale face. Can you hold the dogs one by one while I muzzle them? Oh, oh! replied the giant, placing his bowie knife between his teeth. With gloved hands he seized and dragged one of the dogs to the campfire. The animal whined and protested, but showed no ill spirit. Jones muzzled his jaws tightly with strong cords. Another and another were tied up. Then one which tried to snap a Jones was nearly crushed by the giant's grip. The last, certainly brute, broke out into mad ravings the moment he felt the touch of Jones's hands. And writhing, frothing, he snapped Jones' sleeve. Ray jerked him loose and held him in the air with one arm, while with the other he swung the bowie.  Presently his darkness fastened down tight. It came the same cry wild haunting mourning. But for hours it was not repeated. Better get some rest, said Ray. I'll call you if they come. Jones dropped to sleep as he touched his blanket, mourning dawn for him to find the great dark shadowy figure of the giant nodding over the fire. How's this? Why didn't you call me, demanded Jones.  On the instant Jones saw a wolf sucking up the bank. Throwing up his rifle, which he had carried out of the teepee, he took a snapshot at the beast. It ran off on three legs to go out of sight over the bank. Jones scrambled up the steep, slippery place, and upon arriving at the ridge, which took several moments of hard work, he looked everywhere for the wolf. In a moment he saw the animal, standing still some hundred or more paces down a hollow. With a quick report of Jones' second shot the wolf fell and rolled over. The hunter ran to the spot to find the wolf was dead. Taking hold of a front paw, he dragged the animal over the snow to camp. Ray began to skin the animal when suddenly he explained, this fellow's hind foot is gone. That's strange. I saw it hanging by the skin as the wolf ran up the bank. I'll look for it.  He discovered no sign of the foot. Didn't find it, did you? said Ray. No, it appears not to me. The snow is so hard the foot could not have sunk. Well, the wolf ate his foot. That's what, returned Ray. Look at him teeth marks. Is it possible? Jones stared at the leg Ray held up. Yes, it is. These wolves are crazy at times. You've seen that.  We'll cut him open. Impossible as the thing seemed to Jones, and he could not but believe further evidence of his own eyes. It was even stranger to drive a train of mad dogs. Yet that was what Ray, and he did, and lashed them, beat them to cover many miles of the long day's journey. Rabies had broken out in several dogs so alarmingly that Jones had to kill him at the end of the run. And hardly had the sound of the shots died, when faint and far away, but clear as a bell, bade on the wind the same haunting mourn of a trailing wolf. Ho, ho! Where are the wolves? cried Ray. A waiting, watching, sleepless night followed. Again the hunters faced the south. Hour after hour, riding, running, walking, they urged the poor, jaded, poisoned dogs. At dark they reached the head of our Tilbury Lake. Ray placed the T.P. between two huge stones. Then the hungry hunters, tired, grim, silent, desperate, awaited the familiar cry. It came on the cold wind the same haunting mourn, dreadful, and its significance. Absence of fire inspired the weary wolves. Out of the pale gloom gaunt white forms emerged, agile and stealthy, slipping on velvet padded feet closer, closer, closer. The dogs wailed in terror. Into the T.P., yelled Ray. Jones plunged in after his comrade. The despairing howls of the dogs, drowned in more savage frightful sounds, knelt one tragedy and foretold a more terrible one. Jones looked out to see a white mass, like leaping waves of a rapid. Bumble head into that, cried Ray. Rapidly Jones emptied his rifle into the white fray. The mass split, gaunt wolf leaped high to fall back dead. Others wriggled and limped away. Others dragged their hind quarters. Others darted at the T.P. No more cartridges, yelled Jones. The giant grabbed an axe and barred the door of the T.P. Crash, the heavy iron cleaved the skull of the first brute. Crash, it lame the second. Then Ray stood in the narrow passage between the rocks, waiting with uplifted axe.  Another rabid beast launched his white body at the giant. Like a flash the axe descended. In agony the wolf fell to spin round and round, running on his hind legs while his head and shoulders and forelegs remained in the snow. His back was broken. Jones crouched in the opening of the T.P. knife in hand. He doubted his senses. This was a nightmare. He saw two wolves leap at once. He heard the crash of the axe. He saw one wolf go down, and the other slip under the swinging weapon to grasp the giant's hip. Jones heard the rend of cloth, and then he pounced like a cat and drove his knife into the body of the beast. Another nimble foe lunged at Ray to sprawl broken and limp from the iron. It was a silent fight.  He made no outcry. He needed but one blow for every beast, magnificent. He wheeled at death and faced it, silent. He brought the white wild dogs of the north down with lightning blows, and when no more sprang to the attack, down on the frigid silence he rolled his cry. Oh! Ray, Ray, how is it with you? Called Jones climbing out. Torn coat, no more, my lad. Three of the poor dogs were dead. The fourth and last gasp at the hunters died. The wintery night became a thing of half-conscious past, a dream to the hunters, manifesting its reality only by the stark stiff bodies of wolves white in the gray morning. If we can eat, we'll make the cabin, said Ray. But the dogs and wolves are poison.  Oh! When a hell freezes over if we must. Jones found one forty-five ninety cart reach in all the outfit, and with that in the chamber of his rifle, once more struck south. Spruce trees began to show on the barrens, and caribou trails roused the hopes and the hearts of the hunters. Look! In a spruce's whispered Jones dropping the rope of his sled. Among the black trees gray objects moved. Caribou, said Ray, hurry, shoot, don't miss. But Jones waited. He knew the value of the last bullet. He had a hunter's patience. When the caribou came out in an open space, Jones whistled. It was then the rifle grew set and fixed. It was then the red fire belt forth. At four hundred yards the bullet took some fraction of time to strike. What a long time it was. Then both hunters heard the spiteful spat of the lead. Caribou fell, jumped up, ran down the slope, and fell again to rise no more. An hour of rest with fire and meat changed the world to the hunters, still glistening. It yet had lost its bitter cold, its death-like clutch. What's it's cry, Jones? Mox's and tracks of different sizes, all towing north, arrested the hunters. Pointed north, wonder what that means. Ray plotted on, doubtfully shaking his head. Night again, clear, cold, silver, starlit, silent night. The hunters rested, listening ever for the haunting mourn. Dig in, white, passionless, monotonous, silent day. The hunters traveled on, on, on, ever listening for the haunting mourn. Another dusk found them within thirty miles of their cabin, only one more day now. Ray talked to his furs, of the splendid white furs he could not bring. Jones talked to his little muskox and calves, and joyfully watched them dig for moss in the snow. Vigilance relaxed at night, outworn nature rebelled, and both hunters slept. Ray awoke first, and kicking off the blankets went out. His terrible roar of rage made Jones fly to his side. Under the very shadow of the teepee, where the little muskox and had been tethered, they lay stretched out pathetically on crimson snow, stiff, stone cold dead. Mox's and tracks told the story of the tragedy. Jones leaned against his comrade. The giant raised his huge fist. Jack away out of wood, Jack away out of wood. Then he choked. The north wind blowing through the thin, dark, weird, spruce trees. Moaned and seemed to sigh. Na-za. Na-za. Na-za. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of The Last Plainsman by Zane Gray The sleeper vox recording is in the public domain, recording by Mike Vendetti. Mike Vendetti.com The Last Plainsman by Zane Gray Chapter 11 On to the Seawash Who all was doing the talking last night, asked Frank next morning? When we were having a late breakfast? Cause I have a joke on somebody.  At this cruel exposure of his subjective wanderings, Jim showed extreme humiliation, but Frank's eyes fairly snapped, with the fun he got out of telling it. The genial foreman loved a joke. The weak state oak, in which we all became thoroughly acquainted, had presented Jim, as always, the same quiet character, easy, slow, silent, lovable. In his brother Cowboy, however, we had discovered in addition to his fine, Frank-friendly spirit, an overwhelming fondness for playing tricks. This boy's mischievousness, distinctly Arizonan, reached its acme, whenever it tended in the direction of our serious leader. Lawson had been dispatched on some mysterious errand, about which my curiosity was all in vain. The order of the day was leisurely to get in readiness, and packed for our journey to the sea-wash, on the morrow. A watered mohorse played with the hounds, knocked about the cliffs, returned to the cabin, and lay down on my bed. Jim's hands were white with flour, he was kneading dough, and had several low, flat pans on the table. Wallace and Jones strolled in, and later Frank, and they all took various positions before the fire. I saw Frank, with the quickness of a sleight-of-hand performer, slip one of the pans of dough on the chair. Jones had placed by the table. Jim did not see the action. Jones and Wallace's backs returned to Frank, and he did not know I was in the cabin. The conversation continued on the subject of Jones' big-bay horse, which hobbles and all had gotten ten miles from camp the night before. Better count his ribs than his tracks, said Frank, and went on talking as easily and naturally as if he had not been expecting a very entertaining situation. But no one could ever foretell Colonel Jones's actions. He showed every intention of seating himself in the chair, then walked over to his pack to begin searching for something or other. Wallace, however, promptly took the seat, and what began to be funnier than strange, he did not get up. Not unlikely this circumstance was owing to the fact that several of the root chairs had soft layers of old blankets tacked on them. Whatever were Frank's internal emotions, he presented a remarkably placid and commonplace exterior. But when Jim began to search for the missing pan of dough, the joker slowly sagged in his chair. Sure, that beats hell, said Jim. And three pans of dough. Could the pup have taken one? Wallace rose to his feet and the bread pan clattered to the floor, with a clang-a-clank. Evidently protesting against the indignity it had suffered. But the dough stayed with Wallace, a great white, conspicuous spot on his corduroy's. Jim, Frank, and Jones all saw it at once. Why, Mr. Wallace, you said in the dough, exclaimed Frank in a queer, strangled voice. Then he exploded while Jim fell over the table. It seemed that these two Arizona Rangers, matured men, though they were, would die of convulsions. I laughed with him and so did Wallace while he brought his bone-handled bowie-knife into novel use. Buffalo Jones never cracked a smile, though he did remark about the waste of good flour. Frank's face was a study for a psychologist, when Jim actually apologized to Wallace for being so careless with his pans. I did not betray Frank, but I resolved to keep a still closer watch on him. It was partially because of this uneasy sense of his trickiness in the fringe of my mind that I made a discovery. My sleeping bag rested on a raised platform in one corner. At a favorable moment, I examined the bag. There had not been tampered with, but I noticed a string running out through a chink between the logs. I found it came from a thick layer of straw under my bed, and had been tied to the end of a flatly coiled lasso. Leaving the thing as it was, I went outside and carelessly chased the hounds round the cabin. The string stretched along the logs to another chink, where it returned into the cabin at a point near where Frank's left. No great power of deduction was necessary to acquaint me with full details of the plot to spoil my slumbers. So I patiently awaited developments. Lawson rode in near sundown, with the carcasses of two beasts of some species hanging over his saddle. It turned out that Jones had planned a surprise for Wallace and me, and it could hardly have been a more enjoyable one, considering the time and place. We knew he had a flock of Persian sheep on the south side of Buckskin, but had no idea it was within striking distance of oak. Lawson had that day hunted up the shepherd and his sheep to return to us with two sixty-pound Persian lambs. We feasted at supper-time on meat which was sweet, juicy, and very tender, and of as rare a flavor as that of the Rocky Mountain sheep. My state after supper was one of huge enjoyment, and with intense interest I waited Frank's first bar for an opening. It came presently, in a lull of the conversation. So a big rattler run under the cabin today. He said, as if speaking of one of old baldy shoes. I tried to get a whack at him, but he used the way too quick. Sure, I was saying him often, but in, Jim. Good old honest, Jim, led the way by his trickster Conrad. It was very plain, so I was to be frightened by snakes. These old canyon beds are ideal dens for rattlesnakes, chimed in my scientific California friend. I have found several dens, but did not molest him, as this is a particularly dangerous time of the year to meddle with reptiles. Quite likely there's a den under the cabin. While he made his remarkable statement, he had the grace to hide his face in a huge puff of smoke. He too was in the plot. I waited for Jones to come out with some ridiculous theory or fact concerning the particular species of snake. But as he did not speak, I concluded they had wisely left him out of the secret. After mentally debating a moment, I decided, as it was a very harmless joke, to help Frank to the fulfillment of his enjoyment. Rattlesnakes, I explained. Heavens! I'd die if I heard one, let alone sing it. A big rattler jumped at me one day, and I've never recovered from the shock. Plainly Frank was delighted to hear of my antipathy and my unfortunate experience, and he proceeded to expatterate on the viciousness of rattlesnakes, particularly those of Arizona. If I had believed the succeeding stories emanating from the fertile brains of those three fellows, I should have made certain that Arizona canyons were Brazilian jungles. Frank's parting shot, sent in a mellow kind voice, was the best point in the whole trick. Now I'd be nervous if I had a sleeping bag like yours, because it's just the place for a rattler to ooze into. In the confusion and dim light of bedtime, I contrived to throw the end of my lasso over the horn of a saddle hanging on the wall with the intention of augmenting the noise I soon expected to create, and I placed my automatic rifle in a 38's S&W special within easy reach of my hand. Then I crawled into my bag and composed myself to listen. Frank soon began to snore so bracingly, so fictitiously, that I wondered that the man's absorbed intensity in his joke. And I was at great pains to smother in my breast a violent burst of riotous merriment. Jones's snores, however, were real enough, and this made me enjoy the situation all the more, because if he did not show a mild surprise when the catastrophe fell, I would greatly miss my guess. I knew the three Wiley conspirators were wide awake. Suddenly I felt a movement in the straw under me, and a faint rustling. It was so soft, so sinuous, that if I had not known it was the lasso, I would assuredly have been frightened. I gave a little jump, such as one will make quickly in bed. Then the coil ran out from under the straw. I was subtly suggestive of a sneak. I made a slight outcry, a big jump, paused a moment for effectiveness, in which time Frank forgot to snore, and then let out a tremendous yell, grabbed my guns, and sent twelve thundering shots to the roof, and pulled my lasso. Crash! the saddle came down, to be followed by sounds not on Frank's program, and certainly not calculated upon by me, but they were all the more effective. I gathered Lawson, who was not in the secret, and who was a nightmare sort of sleeper, anyway, had knocked over Jim's table, with its array of pots and pans, and then, unfortunately for Jones, had kicked that innocent person in the stomach. As I lay there in my bag, the very happiest fellow in the wide world, the sound of my mirth, was as the buzz of the wings of a fly to the mighty storm. Roar on roar filled the cabin. When the three hypocrites recovered sufficiently from the startling climax to calm, Lawson, whose war the cabin had been attacked by Indians, when Jones stopped roaring long enough to hear it, was only a harmless snake that had caused the trouble. We hushed to repose once again. Not, however, without hearing some trenchant remarks from the boiling colonel, a net fun and fools, and the indisputable fact that there was not a rattlesnake on Buckskin Mountain. Long after this explosion had died away, I heard or rather fell to mysterious shudder or tremor of the cabin, and I knew that Frank and Jim were shaking with silent laughter. On my own score, I determined to find if Jones, in his strange makeup, had any sense of humor or interest in life or feeling of love that did not center and hinge on four-footed beasts. In view of the rude awakening from what, no doubt, were pleasant dreams of wonderful white and green animals, combining intelligence of man and strength of roots, a new species credible to his genius, I was perhaps unjust in my conviction as to his lack of humor. And as to the other question, whether or not he had any real human feeling for the creatures built in his own image that was decided very soon and unexpectedly. The following morning, as soon as Lawson got in with the horses, we packed and started. Rather sorry was I to bid goodbye to Oak Spring. Taking the back trail of the stewards, we walked the horses all day up a slowly narrowing ascending canyon. The hounds crossed coyotes and deer trails continually but made no break. Sounder looked up as if to say he associated painful reminisces with certain kinds of tracks. At the head of the canyon we reached timber at about the time dusk gathered, and we located for the night. Being once again nearly 9,000 feet high, we found the air bitterly cold, making a blazing fire most acceptable. In the haste to get supper we all took a hand, and someone threw upon our topper and tablecloth a tin cup of butter mixed with carpolic acid, the concoction Jones used to bathe the sore feet of the dogs.  At first I thought I was only burned, then I recognized the taste and burn of the acid and knew something was wrong. Picking up the tin I examined it, smelled the pungent odor, and felt a queer, numb sense of fear. This lasted only for a moment, as I well knew the use and power of the acid, and had not swallowed enough to hurt me. I was about to make known my mistake in a matter-of-fact way. When it plashed over me the accident could be made to serve a turn. Jones! I cried hoarsely. What's in this butter? Lord, you haven't eaten any of that. Well, I put carpolic acid in it. Oh, oh, I'm poisoned. I ate nearly all of it. I'm burning—I'm dying. With that I continued to moan and rock to and throw and hold my stomach. Consternation preceded shock. But in the excitement of the moment Wallace, who though badly scared, retained his wits. Made for me with a can of condensed milk, he threw me back with no gentle hand, and was squeezing the life out of me to make me open my mouth. When I gave him a jab in his side I imagined his surprise as this peculiar reception of the first aid to the injured made him hold off to take a look at me, and in this interval I contrived to whisper to him, Joe, Joe, you idiot! Holy shaming! Want to see if I can scare Jones? Get even with Frank. Help me out. Crying, get tragic. From that moment I shall always believe that the stage lost a great tragedy in Wallace, with a magnificent gesture he threw the can of condensed milk at Jones, who was so stunned he did not try to dodge. Thoughtless man murderer! It's too late! Cried Wallace, laying me back across his knees. It's too late, his teeth are locked. He's far gone. Poor boy, poor boy! Who's to tell his mother? I can see from under my hat-brim that the solemn hollow voice had penetrated the cold exterior of the Plainsman. He could not speak. He clapped and unclaps his big hands in helpless fashion. Frank was white as a sheet. This was simply delightful to me, but the expression of miserable, impotent distress on old Jim's sun-brown face was more than I could stand, and I could no longer keep up the deception. Just as Wallace cried out to Jones to pray, I wished then I had not weakened so soon. I got up and walked to the fire. Jim, I'll have another biscuit, please. His under jaw dropped. Then he nervously shoveled biscuits at me. Jones grabbed my hand and cried out with a voice that was new to me. You can eat. You're better. You'll get over it. Sure, white carbolic acid never phases me. I've often used it for rattlesnake bites. I did not tell you, but that rattler at the cabin last night actually bit me, and I used carbolic to cure the poison. Frank mumbled something about horses and faded into the gloom. As for Jones, he looked at me rather incredulously, and the absolute almost childish gladness he manifested because I had been snatched from the grave, made me regret my deceit, and satisfied me forever on one score. On awakening in the morning I found frost half an inch thick covered by sleeping bag, whitened the ground, and made the beautiful silver spruce trees silver in hue, as well as in name. We were getting ready for an early start, when two riders with pack horses, jogging after them, came down the trail from the direction of Oak Spring. They proved to be Jeff Clark, the wild horse wrangler, mentioned by the stewards and his helper. They were on the way into the breaks for a string of pentos. Clark was a short, heavily bearded man of jovial aspect. He said he had met the stewards going into Fredonia, and being advised of our destination had already to come up with us. As we did not know, except in a general way, where we were making for, the meeting was a fortunate event. Our camping site had been close to the divide, made by one of the long wooded ridges, sent off by a buckskin mountain. And soon we were descending again. We rode half a mile down a timbered slope, and then into a beautiful, flat forest of gigantic pines. Clark informed us it was a level bench, some ten miles long running out over the slopes of buckskin, to face the Grand Canyon on the south, and the breaks of the sea-wash on the west. For two hours we rode between the stately lines of trees, and the hoofs of the horses gave forth no sound. Along silverly grass, sprinkled with smiling bluebells, covered the ground except close under the pines where soft red mats invited lounging and rest. We saw numerous deer, great gray mule deer, almost as large as elk. Jones said they had been crossed with elk once, which accounted for their size. I did not see a stump or a burnt tree or a windfall during the ride. Clark led us to the rim of the canyon. Without any preparation for the giant trees hid the open sky, we rode right out to the edge of the tremendous chasm. At first I did not seem to think, my faculties were benumbed. Only the pure sensorial instinct of the savage who sees but does not feel made me take note of the abyss. Not one of our party had ever seen the canyon from this side, and not one of us said a word. But Clark kept talking. While placed this is here, he said, seldom any one but horse wrangler gets over this far. I've had a bunch of wild pentos down in the canyon below for two years. I reckon you can't find no better place for camp than right here. Listen, do you hear that rumble? That's thunderfalls. You can only see it from one place, and that for off. But there's brooks you can get to water the horses. For that matter, you can ride up the slopes and get snow. If you can get snow close, it'd be better. For that's an all-fired bad trail down for water. Is this the cougar country that his stewards talked about? asked Jones. Wrecking it is. Cougars is as thick in here as rabbits in a spring-hole canyon. I'm on the way now to bring up my pentos. Cougars have cost me hundreds. I might say thousands of dollars. I lose horses all the time. And damn me, gentlemen, I've never raced a colt. This is the greatest cougar country in the West. Look at those yellow crags. There's where cougars stay. No one ever hunted them. Seems to me they can't be hunted. Deer and wild horses by the thousand brows here. In the mountain in summer and down in the brakes in winter, cougars live fat. You'll find deer and wild horse-cockresses. All over this country, you'll find lions' dens full of bones. You'll find warm deer left for the coyotes. But whether you'll find the cougars, I can't say. I fetched dogs in here and tried to catch ol' Tom. I've put them on his trail and never saw hiding our hair of them again. Jones, it's no easy hunting here. Well, I can see that, replied our leader. I never hunted lions in such a country and never knew any one who had. We'll have to learn how. Wave the time and the dogs. All we need is the stuff in us. Hope you fell against some cougars and I believe you will.  We'll catch him alive.  What? exclaimed Clark, looking from Jones to us. His rugged face wore a half-smile. Jones ropes cougars and ties them up, replied Frank. I'm... He'll never rope ol' Tom burst out, Clark. Ejecting a huge quid of tobacco. Why, I'm mad alive. It'd be the death of you to get near that ol' villain. I've never seen him, but I've seen his tracks for five years. They're larger than any horse tracks you ever seen. He'll weigh over three hundred, that ol' cougar. Here, take a look at my man's horse. Look at it back. See any marks? Well, ol' Tom made them and he made them right in camp last fall, when we were down in the canyon. The Mustang to which Clark called our attention was a sleek cream and white pinto. Upon his sight and back were long, regular scars, some an inch wide and bare of hair. How on earth did he get rid of the cougar? asked Jones. I don't know. Perhaps got scared of the dogs. It took that pinto a year to get well. Ol' Tom is a real lion.  You're sure to run across this trail. You'll never miss it. Well, if I find any cougar signed down in the canyon, I'll build two fires so to let you know. Though no hunter, I'm tolerably acquainted with the vermits. The deer and hausses are ranging the four slopes now and I think the cougars come up over the rim-rock at night and go back in the mountain. Anyway, if your dogs can follow the trails, you've got sport and more and sport coming to you. But take it from me. Don't try to rope ol' Tom. After all our disappointments in the beginning of the expedition, our hardship on the desert, our trials with the dogs and horses, it was real pleasure to make permanent camp with wood, water, and feed at hand. A soul-stirring, ever-changing picture before us, and the certainty that we were in the wild layers of the lands, among the lords of the Craigs. While we were unpacking every now and then, I would straighten up and gaze out beyond. I knew the outlook was magnificent and sublime beyond words. But as yet, I had not begun to understand it. The great pine trees, growing to the very edge of the rim, received their full quota of appreciation from me, as did the smooth, flower-decked aisles leading back into the forest. The location we selected for camp was a large glade, fifty paces or more from the precipice. Far enough, the cowboys of Virtu, to keep our traps from being sucked down by some of the whirlpool winds, native to the spot. In the center of this glade stood a huge, gnarled and blasted old pine. But certainly by virtue of plurry locks and bent shoulders had earned the right to stand aloof from his younger companions. Under this tree we placed all our belongings, and then as Frank so felicitously expressed it, we were free to ooze around and see things. I believe I had a sort of subconscious, selfish idea that someone would steal a canyon away from me if I did not hurry to make it mine forever. So I sneaked off, and sat under a pine growing on the very rim. At first glance I saw below me, seemingly miles away, a wide chaos of red and bluff maces, rising out of dark purple clefs. Beyond these reared a long, irregular table-land, running south almost to the extent of my vision, which I remembered Clark had called Powell's Plateau. I remembered also that he had said it was twenty miles distant. It was almost that many miles long, was connected to the mainland of Buckskin Mountain by a very narrow wooded dip of land called the saddle, and that had practically shut us out of a view of the Grand Canyon proper. If that was true, what then could be the name of the canyon at my feet? Suddenly, as my gaze wandered from point to point, it was arrested by a dark conical mountain, white tipped, which rose in a notch of the saddle. What could it mean? Were there such things as canyon mirages? Then the dim purple of its color told of its great distance from me. And then its familiar shape told I had come into my own again. I had found my old friend once more, and for in all that plateau there was only one snow-capped mountain, the San Francisco Peak. And there, a hundred and fifty, perhaps two hundred miles away, far beyond the Grand Canyon, it smiled brightly at me, as it had for days and days across the desert. Hearing Joan yelling for somebody or everybody, I jumped up to find a procession heading for a point further down the rim wall, where our leader stood waving his arms, the excitement proved to have been caused by Cougar signs at the head of the trail where Clark had started down. There, here, boys, there, here, Jones kept repeating, as he showed us different tracks. The sign is not that old, boys, tomorrow we'll get up a lion, sure as you're born. And if we do and Sounder sees him, then we've got a lion-dog. I'm afraid of Don. He has a fine nose. He can run and fight, but he's been trained to dare and maybe I can't break him. Moe's is still uncertain. Old Jude only hadn't been lame. She would be the best of the lot. But Sounder is our hope. I'm almost ready to swear by him. All this was too much for me, so I slipped off again to be alone. And this time, headed for the forest, warm patches of sunlight, like gold, brightened the ground, dark patches of sky like ocean blue, gleamed between the treetops. Hardly a rustle of wind in the fine-toothed green branches disturbed the quiet. When I got fully out of sight of the camp, I started to run as if I were a wild Indian. My running had no aim, just sheer mad joy of the grand old forest, the smell of pine, the wild silence and beauty, loose to spirit in me, so it had to run. And I ran with it till the physical being failed. While resting on a fragrant bed of pine needles, endeavoring to regain control over a torrent mind, trying to subdue the encroaching of the natural man on Civilized Man, I saw gray objects moving under the trees. I lost them, then saw them. And presently so plainly that with delight on delight, I counted seventeen deer past through an open arch of dark green. Rising to my feet, I ran to get round a low mound. They saw me and bounded away with prodigiously long leaps. Bringing their forefeet together, stiff-legged, under them they bounced high like rubber balls, yet they were graceful. The forest was so open that I could watch them for a long way. And as I circled my gaze, a glimpse of something white arrested my attention. A light-grace animal appeared to be tearing at an old stump. Upon your view, I recognized a wolf. And he scented or sighted me at the same moment, and loped off into the shadows of the trees, approaching the spot where I had marked him, and found he had been feeding from the carcass of a horse. The remains had only been partially eaten, and were of an animal over the Mustang build that had evidently been recently killed. Fightful lacerations under the throat showed where a lion had taken fatal hold. Deep furrows in the ground proved how the Mustang had sunk his hoofs. Reared and shaken himself, I traced roughly defined tracks fifty paces to the lee of the Little Bank, from which I concluded the lion had sprung. I gave free reign to my imagination and saw the forest dark, silent, peopled by none but its savage densions. The lion crept like a shadow, crouched noiselessly down, then licked on his sleeping or browsing prey. The lonely night stillness split to a frantic snort and scream of terror, and a stricken Mustang with his mortal enemy upon his back, dashed off with fierce, wild love of life. As he went he felt his full crawl towards his neck, on claws of fire. He saw the tawny body and the gleaming eyes, then the cruel teeth snapped with sudden bite, and the woodland tragedy ended. On the spot I conceived an antipathy towards lions. It was born of the frightful spectacle of what had once been a glossy prancing Mustang, of the mute sickening proof of the survival of the fittest, of the law that levels life. Upon telling my camp followers about my discovery, Jones and Wallace walked out to see it. While Jim told me the wolf I had seen was a loafer, one of the giant buffalo wolves of buckskin, and if I would watch the carcass in mornings and evenings, I would sure as hell get up plunk-adding. White pine burned in a beautiful clear blue flame with no smoke, and in the center of the campfire left a golden heart, but Jones would not have any sitting up, and hustled us off to bed, saying we would be blame glad of it in fifteen hours. I crawled into my sleeping bag, made a hood of my Navajo blanket, and peeping from under it watched the fire and flickering shadows. The blaze burned down rapidly, then the stars blinked. Arizona stars would be moons in any other state. How serene, peaceful, August, infinite and wonderfully bright, no breeze stirred the pines. The clear tinkle of the cowbells on the hobbled horses rang from near and distant parts of the forest. The pro-asic bell of the meadow and the pasture-brook here in this environment jingled out different notes, as clear, sweet musical, as silver bells. Old Tom At daybreak, our leader rotted us out. The frost mantled the ground so heavily that it looked like snow, and the rare atmosphere bit like the breath of winter. The forest stood solemn and gray. The canyon lay wrapped in vapory slumber. Hot biscuits and coffee, with a chopper-two of the delicious Persian lamb meat, put a less spartan tinge on the morning, and gave Wallace and me more strength. We needed not incentive to leave the fire, hustle our saddles on the horses, and get in line with our impatient leader. The hounds scampered over the frost, shoving their noses at the tufts of grass and blue-bells. Lawson and Jim remained in camp. The rest of us trooped southwest. A mile or so in that direction the forest of pine ended abruptly, and a wide belt of low scrubby oak trees, pressed high to a horse, fringed the rim of the canyon, and appeared to broaden out and grow wavy southward. The edge of the forest was as dark and regular as if a band of woodchoppers had trimmed it. We threaded our way through this thicket, all peering into the bisecting deer trails for cougar tracks in the dust. Bring dogs! Hurry! Suddenly called Jones from a thicket. We lost no time complying, and found him standing in a trail, with his eyes on the sand. Take a look, boys!  Here's on her dawn. Moes, come on! It was a nervous excited pack of hounds. Old Jude got to Jones first, and she sang out. Then Sounder opened his big ringing bay, and before Jones could mount, a string of yelping dogs sailed straight for the forest. Who's long, boys? yelled Frank, wheeling spot. With the cowboy leading we strung into the pines, and I found myself behind. Presently even Wallace disappeared. I almost threw the reins at Satan, and yelled for him to go. The result enlightened me, like an arrow from a bow, the black shot forward. Frank had told me of his speed, that when he found his stride it was like riding a flying feather to be on him. Jones fearing he would kill me, had cautioned me always to hold him in. Which I had done. Satan stretched out with long, graceful motions. He did not turn aside for logs, but cleared them with easy and powerful spring. And he swerved only slightly for the trees. This latter I saw at once made the danger for me. It became a matter of saving my legs and dodging branches. The imperative need of this came to me with convincing force. I dodged a branch on one tree, only to be caught square in the middle by a snag on another. Crack! If the snag had not broken, Satan would have gone on riderless, and I would have been left hanging a pathetic and drooping monoton to the risks of the hunt. I kept ducking my head, now and then falling flat over the pommel, to avoid a limb that would have brushed me off, and hugging the flanks of my horse with my knees. Soon I was at Wallace's heels and had Jones in sight. Now and then glimpses of Frank's white horse gleamed through the trees. We began to circle toward the south, to go up and down shallow hollows, to find the pine thinning out, then we shot out of the forest into the scrubby oak. Riding through this brush was the cruelest kind of work, but Satan kept on close to the sorrel. The hollows began to get deeper and the ridges between them narrower. No longer could we keep a straight course. On the crest of one of these ridges we found Jones awaiting us. Judge, King, and Don lay panting on his feet. Plainly the Colonel appeared vexed. Listen, he said, when he reigned in. We complied, but did not hear a sound. Frank's beyond there someplace, continued Jones. But it can't seem nor hear the hounds any more. Don and Tiggs split again on deer trails. Old Jude hung on the lion-track. But I stopped her here. There's something I can't figure. Moe's held a beeline southwest. And he yelled seldom. Sounder gradually stopped being. Maybe Frank can tell us something.  This drew my attention to our position. We were on a high ridge out in the open, and I could see fifty miles of the shaggy slopes of Buckskin. Southward the gray-ragged line seemed to stop suddenly and beyond it purple haze, hung over a void I knew to be the canyon. And facing west I came to at last, to understand perfectly the meaning of the breaks in the sea-wash. They were nothing more than ravines that headed up on the slopes and ran down, getting deeper and steeper, though scarcely wider, to break into the canyon. Knife-crested ridges rolled westward wave on wave, like the billows of a sea. I appreciated that these breaks were, at their sources. Little wash is easy to jump across, and at their mouths a mile deep and impassable. Huge pine trees shaded these gullies to give way to the gray growth of stunted oak, which in turn merged into the dark green of pinion. A wonderful country for deer and lions that seemed to me, but impassable, all but impossible for a hunter. Frank soon appeared, brushing through the bending oaks, and sounder trotted along behind him. Where's Moe's? inquired Jones. Last I heard of Moe's, he was out on the brush going across the pinion-flat, right for the canyon. He had a hot trail. Well, we're certain for one thing, if it was a deer he won't come back soon, and if it was a lion he'll tree it, lose the sand and come back. We've got to show the hounds a lion in a tree. They'd run a hot trail, bump into a tree, and then be at fault. What was wrong with sounder? I don't know. Came back to me. We can't trust him or any of them yet. Still, maybe they're doing better than we know. The outcome of the chase so favorably started was a disappointment, which we all felt keenly, after some discussion. We turned south, intending to ride down to the rim wall, and follow it back to the camp. I happened to turn once, perhaps, to look again, at the far distant pink cliffs of Utah, or the wave-like dome of Trumbull Mountain. When I saw Moe's trailing close behind me, my yell halted the kernel. Well, benarn, ejaculated he, as Moe's hove in sight. Come here, old rascal. He was a tired dog, but had no sheepy share about him, such as he had worn when lagging in from deer chases. He whiked his tail and flopped down to pant and pant, as if to say. What's wrong with you guys? Boys, for two cents I'd go back and put Jude on that trail. It's just possible that Moe's treat a lion. Well, I expect there's more likelihood of his chasing the lion over the rim, so he may as well keep on. The strange thing is that Sounder wasn't with Moe's. There may have been two lions. You see, we are up a tree ourselves. I've known lions to run in pairs and also a mother to keep four two-year olds with her. But such cases are rare here in this country, though maybe they've run around and have parties. As we left the breaks behind, we got out upon a level-pinion flat. Few cedars grew within the pinions, deer runways and trails were thick. Oh, look at that, said Jones. This is great lion country, the best I ever saw. Pointed to the sunken red shapeless remains of two horses, and near them a ghastly scattering of bleached bones. A lion-layer right here on the flat. Those two horses were killed earlier this morning, seeing those signs of the carcasses having been covered with brush and dirt. I've got to learn lion lore over again, that's certain. As we paused at the head of the depression, which appeared to be a gap in the rim wall, filled with masked pinions and splintered piles of yellow stone, I caught Sounder going through some interesting moves. He stopped to smell a bush, then he lifted his head and electrified me with a great deep-sounding bay. Hi there, listen to that, yelled Jones. What Sounder got? Give him room. Don't run him down. He's an owl-dog. Easy, easy. Sounder suddenly broke down a trail. Most howled, Don barked, and Tig led out his staccato yelp. They ran through the bush here, there, everywhere. Then all at once old Jude chimed in with her mellow voice, and Jones tumbled off his horse. By the Lord Harry, there's something here. Here, Colonel, here's the brush, Sounder smelled. And there's a sandy trail under it, I called. There were Don and Tig down into the break, tried Frank. They've got a hot scent.  As he flung himself onto the saddle, roared out. After Sounder, old Tom, old Tom, old Tom, we all heard Sounder, and at the moment of Jones' discovery, Moe's got the scent and plunged ahead of us. Aye, aye, aye, aye, yelled a Colonel.  Sounder called to us in irresistible bays, which Moe's answered. And then crippled Jude bathed in baffled, impotent distress. The atmosphere was charged with that lion. As if by magic the excitation communicated itself to all and men, horses, and dogs reacted in accord. The ride through the forest had been a jaunt. This was a steeple-chase, a mad, heedless, perilous, glorious race.  Always it seemed to me, while the wind rushed, the brush whipped, I saw Frank far ahead, sitting as saddle as if glued there, holding his reins loosely forward. To see him ride was a beautiful sight. Jones let out his Comanche yell at every dozen jumps, and Wallace sent back a thrilling wahoo. In the excitement I again checked my horse, and when I remembered I loosed the bridle. How the noble animal responded. The pace he settled into dazed me. I could hardly distinguish the deer trail down which he was thundering. I lost my comrades ahead, the pinion blurred in my sight. I only faintingly heard the hounds. It occurred to me. We were making for the brakes. But I did not think of checking Satan. I thought only of flying on faster and faster. On, on, old fellow, stretch out. Never lose this race. We've got to be there at the finish, I called to Satan. And he seemed to understand and stretch lower further quicker. The brush pounded my legs and clutched and tore my clothes. The wind whistled, the pinion branches cut and whipped my face. Once I dodged to the left, as Satan swerved to the right, with the result that I flew out of the saddle and crashed into a pinion tree, which marvelously brushed me back into the saddle. The wild yells and deep bays sounded nearer. Satan tripped and plunged down, throwing me as gracefully as an aerial tumbler, wings his flight. I delighted in a bush. Without feeling a scratch or pain, as Satan recovered and ran past, I did not seek to make him stop, but getting a good grip on the pommel, I vaulted up again. Once more he raced like a wild mustang. And from nearer and nearer in front peeled the alluring sounds of the chase. Satan was creeping close to Wallace and Jones with frank looming white through the occasional pinions. Then all dropped out his sight to appear again suddenly. They had reached the first break. Soon I was upon it. Two deer ran out of the ravine, almost brushing my horse in the haste. Satan went down and up, in a few giant strides. Only the narrow ridge separated us from another break. It was up and down, then for Satan, a work to which he manfully set himself. Occasionally I saw Wallace and Jones, but heard them oftener.  Discouragement fastened on me. When from the summit of the next ridge I saw Frank far down the break, with Jones and Wallace not a quarter of a mile away from him, I sent out a long exultant yell as Satan crashed into the hard dry wash in the bottom of the break. I knew from the way he quickened under me that he intended to overhaul somebody. Perhaps because of the clear going or because my frenzy had cooled to a thrilling excitement which permitted detail I saw clearly and distinctly the speeding horsemen down the ravine. I picked out the smooth pieces of ground ahead, and with the slightest touch of the rain on his neck, guided Satan into them, how he ran. The light-quick beats of his hooves were regular, pounding. Seeing Jones and Wallace sail high in the air, I knew they had jumped a ditch. Thus prepared I managed to stick on when it yawned before me, and Satan never slacking, lipped up and up, giving me a new swing. Dust began to settle in little clouds before me. Frank far ahead had turned his Mustang up the side of the break. Wallace, with inhaling distance now, turned to wave me a hand. The rushing wind fairly sang in my ears. The walls of the break were confused, blurs of yellow and green.  Jones began to scale a ravine, heading up obliquely, far on the side of where Frank had vanished, and as Wallace followed suit, I turned Satan. I caught Wallace at the summit, and we raced together out upon another flat opinion. We heard Frank and Jones yelling in a way that caused us to spur our horses frantically. Spot, gleaming white near a clump of green pinions, was our guiding star. That last quarter of a mile was a ringing run, a ride, to remember. As our mounts crashed back with stiff forelegs and haunches, Wallace and I left off and darted into the clump of pinions whence issued a hair-raising melody of yells and barks. I saw Jones, then Frank, both waving their arms when moans and sounder running wildly a aim you'll see about. Look there, rang in my ear, and Jones smashed me on the back with a blow which at any ordinary time would have laid me flat. In the low stubby pinion tree scarce twenty feet from us was a tawny form. An enormous mountain lion, as large as an African lioness, stood planted with huge, round legs on two branches, and he faced us gloomily. Neither frightened nor fierce, he watched the running dogs with pale yellow eyes waved his massive head in switching a long, black, tough tail. It's old Tom, sure as you're born, it's old Tom, yelled Jones, there are no two lions like that in one country. Hold still now, Jude is here, and she'll see him, she'll show him to the other hounds, hold still. We heard Jude coming at a fast pace for a lame dog, and we saw her presently running with her nose down for a moment then up. She entered the clump of trees and bumped her nose against the pinion, old Tom was in, and looked up like a dog that knew her business. The series of wild howls she broke into quickly brought Sounder and Moes to her side. They too saw the big lion not fifteen feet over their heads. We were all yelling and trying to talk at once in some such state as the dogs. Here, Moes, come down out of that. Worstly shot at Jones. Moes had begun to climb the thick mini branched low pinion tree. He paid not the slightest attention to Jones who screamed and raged at him. Cover the lion, cried he to me. Don't shoot unless he crouches to jump on me. The little beaded front sight wavered slightly as I held my rifle leveled at the grim, snarling face, and out of the corner of my eye, as it were, I saw Jones dash in under the lion and grasp Moes by the hind leg and hauling down. He broke from Jones and leaped again into the first low branch. His master then grasped with collar and carried him to where he stood and held him choking. Boys, we can't keep Tom up there. When he jumps, keep out of his way. Maybe we can chase him up a better tree. Old Tom suddenly left the branches, swinging violently and hitting the ground like a huge cat on springs. He bounded off, tail up, in a most ludicrous manner. His running, however, did not lack speed, for he quickly out-distance the bursting hounds. A stampede for horses succeeded this move. I had difficulty in closing my camera, which I had forgotten until the last moment, and got behind the others. Satan sent the dust flying, and the pinion branches crashing. Hardly I had time to bewail my ill luck in being left. When I dashed on up a quick growth of trees to come upon my companions, all dismounted on the rim of the Grand Canyon. He's gone down. He's gone down. Rage Jones stomping the ground. What luck! What miserable luck! But don't quit. Spread along the rim, boys, and look for him. Cougars can't fly. There's a break in the rim somewhere. The rock wall on which we disly stood dropped straight down for a thousand feet. To meet a long pinion-covered slope, which graded a mile to cut off into what must have been the second wall, we were far west of Clarks Trail now, and faced a point above where a canine canyon, a red gorge a mile deep, met the Great Canyon. As I ran along the rim, looking for a fissure or break, my gaze seemed impellently drawn by the immensity of this thing I could not name, and for which I had no intelligible emotion. Tuwahoo's in the rear turned me back in a double quick time, and hastening by the horses I found the three men grouped at the head of a narrow break. He went down there, while I saw him around the base of that tottering crag. The break was wedge-shaped, with the sharp end toward the rim, and it descended so rapidly as to appear almost perpendicular.  If you find his trail below along the wall, yell to us. Meanwhile Wallace and I will hang over the rim and watch for him. Going down, in one sense, was much easier than it had appeared. For the reason that once started we moved on sliding beds of weathered stone. Each of us now had an avalanche for a steed. Frank forged a head with a roar, and then, seeing danger below, tried to get out of the mass, but the stones were like quicksand, every step he took, sunk him in deeper. He grasped the smooth cliff to find holding impossible. The slide poured over a fall like so much water. He reached and caught a branch of opinion, and lifting his feet up hung on till the treacherous area of moving stones had passed, while I had been absorbed in his predicament, my avalanche augmented itself by slide on slide. Perhaps loosened by his, and before I knew it, I was sailing down with ever-increasing momentum. The sensation was distinctly pleasant, and a certain spirit, before restrained in me, at last, ran riot. The slide narrowed at the drop where Frank had jumped, and the stones poured over in the stream. I jumped also, but having a rifle in one hand, failed to hold and plunged down into the slide again. My feet were held this time as in a vice. I kept myself upright and waited. Fortunately, the jumble of loose stones slowed and stopped, enabled me to crawl over to one side, where there was comparatively good footing. Below us, for fifty yards, was a sheet of rough stone, as bare as washed granite well could be. We slid down this in regular schoolboy fashion, and had reached another restricted neck in the fissure when a sliding crash above warned us that the avalanches had decided to move of their own free will. Only a fraction of a moment had we defined footing along the yellow cliff, when, with a crackling roar, the mass struck the slippery granite. If we had been on that slope, our lives would not have been worth a grain of dust, flying in clouds above us. Huge stones that had formed the bottom of the slides were shot ahead, and rolling, leaping, whizzed by us with frightful velocity, and a remainder groaned and growled its way down, to thunder over the second fall and die out in a distant rumble. The hounds had hung back, and were not easily coaxed down to us. From there on, down to the base of the gigantic cliff, we descended with little difficulty. We might meet the old gray cat anywhere along here, said Frank. The wall of yellow limestone had shelves, ledges, fissures, and cracks, any one of which might have concealed a lion. On these places I turned dark uneasy glances. It seemed to me events succeeded one another so rapidly that I had no time to think, to examine, to prepare. We were rushed from one sensation to another. Hey, look here, said Frank. Here's his tracks. Did you ever see the like of that? Certainly I had never fixed my eyes on such enormous cat tracks as appeared in the yellow dust at the base of the rim wall. The mere sight of them was sufficient to make a man tremble. Hold in to dogs, Frank, called. Listen, I think I heard a yell. From far above came a yell, which, though thinned out by distance, was easily recognized as Jones's. We returned to the opening of the break and, throwing our heads back, looked up the slide to see him coming down. Wait for me! Wait for me! I saw the lion go in a cave. Wait for me! With the same roaring crack and slide of rocks as had attended our descent, Jones bore down on us. For an old man, it was a marvellous performance. He walked on the avalanche as though he wore seven league boots, and presently, as we began to dodge, whizzing boulders, he stepped down to us, whirling his coil of lasso.  Boy, we got old Tom in a corner. I worked along the rim north and looked over every place I could. Now, maybe you won't believe it, but I heard him pant. Yes, sir, he panted, like the tired lion he is. Well, presently, I saw him lying along the base of the rim wall. His tongue was hanging out. You see, he's a heavy lion and not used to running long distances. Come on now. It's not far. Hold in to dogs.  Single file we passed along the shadow of the great cliff, a wide trail, had been worn in the dust, a lion runway, said Jones.  Indeed, the strong litter of cat was very pronounced, and that without the big fresh tracks made the skin of my face tighten and chill. As we turned, a jutting point in the wall, a number of animals which I did not recognize, plunged helter-skelter down the canyon slope. Rocky Mountain sheep, explained Jones. Look, now this is a discovery. I never heard of a big horn in the canyon. It was indicative of the strong grip old Tom had on this, that we had once forgot the remarkable fact of coming upon these rare sheep in such a place. Jones halted this presently before a deep curve described, by the rim wall, the extreme end of which terminated across the slope, in an impassable projecting corner. Did it cross there, boys? See that black hole, old Tom's in there. Much plan, queried the cowboy sharply. Wait, we'll slip up to get better lie of the land. We worked our way noiselessly along the rim wall curve for several hundred yards and came to a halt again, this time with the splendid command of this situation. The trail ended abruptly at the dark cave, so menacingly staring at us and the corner of the cliff had curled back upon itself. It was a botched trap, with a drop at the end too great for any beast, a narrow slide of weathered stone running down in the rim wall of trail. Old Tom would plainly be compelled to choose one of these directions if he left his cave. Frank, you and I will keep to the wall and stop near the scrub pinion this side of the hole. If I rope him I can use that tree. Then he turned to me. Are you to be dependent on here? Why? What do you want me to do? I demanded and my whole breast seemed to sink in. You cut a carousel ahead of this slope and take up your position in the slide below the cave. Say just by that big stone. From there you can command the cave, our position, and your own.   What a position for me to be placed in. For one instant I shook like a quivering aspen leaf. Then because of the pride of a man or perhaps inherited instincts, cropping out of this perilous moment I looked up and answered quietly, Yes, I will kill him. Old Tom is cornered and he'll come out. He can run only two ways along this trail or down that slide. I'll take my stand by the scrub pinion there so I can get a hitch if I rope him. Frank, when I give your word, let the dogs go. Gray, you block the slide. If he makes at us, even if I do, get my rope on him. Kill him. Most likely he'll jump down hill. Then you'll have to kill him. Be quick. Now, loose a hound. High, high, high. I jumped into the narrow slide of weathered stones and looked up. Jones and Toria and Yael rose high above the clamor of the hounds. He whirled his lasso. A huge yellow form shot over the trail and hit the top of the slide with a crash. The lasso streaked out with airy swiftness circled and snapped viciously close to Old Tom's head. Kill him. Kill him. Lord Jones. Then the lion leaped seemingly into the air above me. Instinctively I raised my little automatic rifle. I seemed to hear a million bellowing reports, the tawny body with its grim, snarling face blurred in my sight. I heard a roar of sliding stones at my feet. I felt a rush of wind. I caught a confused glimpse of a whirling wheel of fur rolling down the slide. Then Jones and Franks were pounding on me and yelling, I know not what. From far above came floating down a long wahoo. I saw Wallace silhouetted against the blue sky.  Then and only then did I realize, with weakening legs, that Old Tom had just jumped at me and had jumped to his death.