chapter 0.prefatory note buffalo jones needs no introduction toamerican sportsmen, but to these of my readers who are unacquainted with him a fewwords may not be amiss. he was born sixty-two years ago on theillinois prairie, and he has devoted practically all of his life to the pursuitof wild animals. it has been a pursuit which owed itsunflagging energy and indomitable purpose to a singular passion, almost an obsession,to capture alive, not to kill. he has caught and broken the will of everywell-known wild beast native to western north america.killing was repulsive to him.
he even disliked the sight of a sportingrifle, though for years necessity compelled him to earn his livelihood by supplying themeat of buffalo to the caravans crossing the plains. at last, seeing that the extinction of thenoble beasts was inevitable, he smashed his rifle over a wagon wheel and vowed to savethe species. for ten years he labored, pursuing,capturing and taming buffalo, for which the west gave him fame, and the name preserverof the american bison. as civilization encroached upon the plainsbuffalo jones ranged slowly westward; and to-day an isolated desert-bound plateau onthe north rim of the grand canyon of
arizona is his home. there his buffalo browse with the mustangand deer, and are as free as ever they were on the rolling plains. in the spring of 1907 i was the fortunatecompanion of the old plainsman on a trip across the desert, and a hunt in thatwonderful country of yellow crags, deep canyons and giant pines. i want to tell about it. i want to show the color and beauty ofthose painted cliffs and the long, brown- matted bluebell-dotted aisles in the grandforests; i want to give a suggestion of the
tang of the dry, cool air; and particularly i want to throw a little light upon thelife and nature of that strange character and remarkable man, buffalo jones. happily in remembrance a writer can liveover his experiences, and see once more the moonblanched silver mountain peaks againstthe dark blue sky; hear the lonely sough of the night wind through the pines; feel the dance of wild expectation in the quiveringpulse; the stir, the thrill, the joy of hard action in perilous moments; themystery of man's yearning for the unattainable.
as a boy i read of boone with a throbbingheart, and the silent moccasined, vengeful wetzel i loved.i pored over the deeds of later men--custer and carson, those heroes of the plains. and as a man i came to see the wonder, thetragedy of their lives, and to write about them. it has been my destiny--what a happyfulfillment of my dreams of border spirit!- -to live for a while in the fast-fadingwild environment which produced these great men with the last of the great plainsmen. zane grey.
> chapter 1.the arizona desert one afternoon, far out on the sun-bakedwaste of sage, we made camp near a clump of withered pinyon trees.the cold desert wind came down upon us with the sudden darkness. even the mormons, who were finding thetrail for us across the drifting sands, forgot to sing and pray at sundown.we huddled round the campfire, a tired and silent little group. when out of the lonely, melancholy nightsome wandering navajos stole like shadows
to our fire, we hailed their advent withdelight. they were good-natured indians, willing tobarter a blanket or bracelet; and one of them, a tall, gaunt fellow, with thebearing of a chief, could speak a little english. "how," said he, in a deep chest voice."hello, noddlecoddy," greeted jim emmett, the mormon guide."ugh!" answered the indian. "big paleface--buffalo jones---big chief--buffalo man," introduced emmett, indicating jones."how." the navajo spoke with dignity, and extendeda friendly hand.
"jones big white chief--rope buffalo--tieup tight," continued emmett, making motions with his arm, as if he were whirling alasso. "no big--heap small buffalo," said theindian, holding his hand level with his knee, and smiling broadly.jones, erect, rugged, brawny, stood in the full light of the campfire. he had a dark, bronzed, inscrutable face;a stern mouth and square jaw, keen eyes, half-closed from years of searching thewide plains; and deep furrows wrinkling his cheeks. a strange stillness enfolded his featurethe tranquility earned from a long life of
adventure.he held up both muscular hands to the navajo, and spread out his fingers. "rope buffalo--heap big buffalo--heap many--one sun." the indian straightened up, but kept hisfriendly smile. "me big chief," went on jones, "me go farnorth--land of little sticks--naza! naza! rope musk-ox; rope white manitou ofgreat slave naza! naza!" "naza!" replied the navajo, pointing to thenorth star; "no--no." "yes me big paleface--me come long waytoward setting sun--go cross big water--go
buckskin--siwash--chase cougar." the cougar, or mountain lion, is a navajogod and the navajos hold him in as much fear and reverence as do the great slaveindians the musk-ox. "no kill cougar," continued jones, as theindian's bold features hardened. "run cougar horseback--run long way--dogschase cougar long time--chase cougar up tree! me big chief--me climb tree--climb high up--lasso cougar--rope cougar--tie cougar all tight."the navajo's solemn face relaxed "white man heap fun.
no.""yes," cried jones, extending his great arms."me strong; me rope cougar--me tie cougar; ride off wigwam, keep cougar alive." "no," replied the savage vehemently."yes," protested jones, nodding earnestly. "no," answered the navajo, louder, raisinghis dark head. "yes!" shouted jones. "big lie!" the indian thundered.jones joined good-naturedly in the laugh at his expense. the indian had crudely voiced a skepticismi had heard more delicately hinted in new
york, and singularly enough, which hadstrengthened on our way west, as we met ranchers, prospectors and cowboys. but those few men i had fortunately met,who really knew jones, more than overbalanced the doubt and ridicule castupon him. i recalled a scarred old veteran of theplains, who had talked to me in true western bluntness: "say, young feller, i heerd yer couldn'tgit acrost the canyon fer the deep snow on the north rim.wal, ye're lucky. now, yer hit the trail fer new york, an'keep goin'!
don't ever tackle the desert, 'speciallywith them mormons. they've got water on the brain, wusser 'nreligion. it's two hundred an' fifty miles fromflagstaff to jones range, an' only two drinks on the trail. i know this hyar buffalo jones.i knowed him way back in the seventies, when he was doin' them ropin' stunts thetmade him famous as the preserver of the american bison. i know about that crazy trip of his'n tothe barren lands, after musk-ox. an' i reckon i kin guess what he'll do overthere in the siwash.
he'll rope cougars--sure he will--an' watch'em jump. jones would rope the devil, an' tie himdown if the lasso didn't burn. oh! he's hell on ropin' things. an' he's wusser 'n hell on men, an' hosses,an' dogs." all that my well-meaning friend suggestedmade me, of course, only the more eager to go with jones. where i had once been interested in the oldbuffalo hunter, i was now fascinated. and now i was with him in the desert andseeing him as he was, a simple, quiet man, who fitted the mountains and the silences,and the long reaches of distance.
"it does seem hard to believe--all thisabout jones," remarked judd, one of emmett's men."how could a man have the strength and the nerve? and isn't it cruel to keep wild animals incaptivity? it against god's word?" quick as speech could flow, jones quoted:"and god said, 'let us make man in our image, and give him dominion over the fishof the sea, the fowls of the air, over all the cattle, and over every creeping thingthat creepeth upon the earth'!" "dominion--over all the beasts of thefield!" repeated jones, his big voice rolling out.
he clenched his huge fists, and spread widehis long arms. "dominion!that was god's word!" the power and intensity of him could befelt. then he relaxed, dropped his arms, and oncemore grew calm. but he had shown a glimpse of the great,strange and absorbing passion of his life. once he had told me how, when a mere child,he had hazarded limb and neck to capture a fox squirrel, how he had held on to thevicious little animal, though it bit his hand through; how he had never learned to play the games of boyhood; that when theyouths of the little illinois village were
at play, he roamed the prairies, or therolling, wooded hills, or watched a gopher hole. that boy was father of the man: for sixtyyears an enduring passion for dominion over wild animals had possessed him, and madehis life an endless pursuit. our guests, the navajos, departed early,and vanished silently in the gloom of the desert. we settled down again into a quiet that wasbroken only by the low chant-like song of a praying mormon. suddenly the hounds bristled, and old moze,a surly and aggressive dog, rose and barked
at some real or imaginary desert prowler. a sharp command from jones made moze crouchdown, and the other hounds cowered close together."better tie up the dogs," suggested jones. "like as not coyotes run down here from thehills." the hounds were my especial delight.but jones regarded them with considerable contempt. when all was said, this was no smallwonder, for that quintet of long-eared canines would have tried the patience of asaint. old moze was a missouri hound that joneshad procured in that state of uncertain
qualities; and the dog had grown old overcoon-trails. he was black and white, grizzled andbattlescarred; and if ever a dog had an evil eye, moze was that dog. he had a way of wagging his tail--anindeterminate, equivocal sort of wag, as if he realized his ugliness and knew he stoodlittle chance of making friends, but was still hopeful and willing. as for me, the first time he manifestedthis evidence of a good heart under a rough coat, he won me forever. to tell of moze's derelictions up to thattime would take more space than would a
history of the whole trip; but theenumeration of several incidents will at once stamp him as a dog of character, and will establish the fact that even if hisprogenitors had never taken any blue ribbons, they had at least bequeathed himfighting blood. at flagstaff we chained him in the yard ofa livery stable. next morning we found him hanging by hischain on the other side of an eight-foot fence. we took him down, expecting to have thesorrowful duty of burying him; but moze shook himself, wagged his tail and thenpitched into the livery stable dog.
as a matter of fact, fighting was hisforte. he whipped all of the dogs in flagstaff;and when our blood hounds came on from california, he put three of them hors decombat at once, and subdued the pup with a savage growl. his crowning feat, however, made even thestoical jones open his mouth in amaze. we had taken moze to the el tovar at thegrand canyon, and finding it impossible to get over to the north rim, we left him withone of jones's men, called rust, who was working on the canyon trail. rust's instructions were to bring moze toflagstaff in two weeks.
he brought the dog a little ahead time, androared his appreciation of the relief it to get the responsibility off his hands. and he related many strange things, moststriking of which was how moze had broken his chain and plunged into the ragingcolorado river, and tried to swim it just above the terrible sockdolager rapids. rust and his fellow-workmen watched the dogdisappear in the yellow, wrestling, turbulent whirl of waters, and had heardhis knell in the booming roar of the falls. nothing but a fish could live in thatcurrent; nothing but a bird could scale those perpendicular marble walls.
that night, however, when the men crossedon the tramway, moze met them with a wag of his tail.he had crossed the river, and he had come back! to the four reddish-brown, high-framedbloodhounds i had given the names of don, tige, jude and ranger; and by dint ofpersuasion, had succeeded in establishing some kind of family relation between themand moze. this night i tied up the bloodhounds, afterbathing and salving their sore feet; and i left moze free, for he grew fretful andsurly under restraint. the mormons, prone, dark, blanketedfigures, lay on the sand.
jones was crawling into his bed. i walked a little way from the dying fire,and faced the north, where the desert stretched, mysterious and illimitable.how solemn and still it was! i drew in a great breath of the cold air,and thrilled with a nameless sensation. something was there, away to the northward;it called to me from out of the dark and gloom; i was going to meet it. i lay down to sleep with the great blueexpanse open to my eyes. the stars were very large, and wonderfullybright, yet they seemed so much farther off than i had ever seen them.
the wind softly sifted the sand.i hearkened to the tinkle of the cowbells on the hobbled horses. the last thing i remembered was old mozecreeping close to my side, seeking the warmth of my body.when i awakened, a long, pale line showed out of the dun-colored clouds in the east. it slowly lengthened, and tinged to red.then the morning broke, and the slopes of snow on the san francisco peaks behind usglowed a delicate pink. the mormons were up and doing with thedawn. they were stalwart men, rather silent, andall workers.
it was interesting to see them pack for theday's journey. they traveled with wagons and mules, in themost primitive way, which jones assured me was exactly as their fathers had crossedthe plains fifty years before, on the trail to utah. all morning we made good time, and as wedescended into the desert, the air became warmer, the scrubby cedar growth began tofail, and the bunches of sage were few and far between. i turned often to gaze back at the sanfrancisco peaks. the snowcapped tips glistened and grewhigher, and stood out in startling relief.
some one said they could be seen twohundred miles across the desert, and were a landmark and a fascination to all travelersthitherward. i never raised my eyes to the north that idid not draw my breath quickly and grow chill with awe and bewilderment with themarvel of the desert. the scaly red ground descended gradually;bare red knolls, like waves, rolled away northward; black buttes reared their flatheads; long ranges of sand flowed between them like streams, and all sloped away to merge into gray, shadowy obscurity, intowild and desolate, dreamy and misty nothingness."do you see those white sand dunes there,
more to the left?" asked emmett. "the little colorado runs in there.how far does it look to you?" "thirty miles, perhaps," i replied, addingten miles to my estimate. "it's seventy-five. we'll get there day after to-morrow.if the snow in the mountains has begun to melt, we'll have a time getting across."that afternoon, a hot wind blew in my face, carrying fine sand that cut and blinded. it filled my throat, sending me to thewater cask till i was ashamed. when i fell into my bed at night, i neverturned.
the next day was hotter; the wind blewharder; the sand stung sharper. about noon the following day, the horseswhinnied, and the mules roused out of their tardy gait. "they smell water," said emmett.and despite the heat, and the sand in my nostrils, i smelled it, too.the dogs, poor foot-sore fellows, trotted on ahead down the trail. a few more miles of hot sand and gravel andred stone brought us around a low mesa to the little colorado.it was a wide stream of swiftly running, reddish-muddy water.
in the channel, cut by floods, littlestreams trickled and meandered in all directions.the main part of the river ran in close to the bank we were on. the dogs lolled in the water; the horsesand mules tried to run in, but were restrained; the men drank, and bathed theirfaces. according to my flagstaff adviser, this wasone of the two drinks i would get on the desert, so i availed myself heartily of theopportunity. the water was full of sand, but cold andgratefully thirst-quenching. the little colorado seemed no more to methan a shallow creek; i heard nothing
sullen or menacing in its musical flow. "doesn't look bad, eh?" queried emmett, whoread my thought. "you'd be surprised to learn how many menand indians, horses, sheep and wagons are buried under that quicksand." the secret was out, and i wondered no more.at once the stream and wet bars of sand took on a different color.i removed my boots, and waded out to a little bar. the sand seemed quite firm, but water oozedout around my feet; and when i stepped, the whole bar shook like jelly.
i pushed my foot through the crust, and thecold, wet sand took hold, and tried to suck me down."how can you ford this stream with horses?" i asked emmett. "we must take our chances," replied he."we'll hitch two teams to one wagon, and run the horses.i've forded here at worse stages than this. once a team got stuck, and i had to leaveit; another time the water was high, and washed me downstream."emmett sent his son into the stream on a mule. the rider lashed his mount, and plunging,splashing, crossed at a pace near a gallop.
he returned in the same manner, andreported one bad place near the other side. jones and i got on the first wagon andtried to coax up the dogs, but they would not come. emmett had to lash the four horses to startthem; and other mormons riding alongside, yelled at them, and used their whips.the wagon bowled into the water with a tremendous splash. we were wet through before we had gonetwenty feet. the plunging horses were lost in yellowspray; the stream rushed through the wheels; the mormons yelled.
i wanted to see, but was lost in a veil ofyellow mist. jones yelled in my ear, but i could nothear what he said. once the wagon wheels struck a stone orlog, almost lurching us overboard. a muddy splash blinded me.i cried out in my excitement, and punched jones in the back. next moment, the keen exhilaration of theride gave way to horror. we seemed to drag, and almost stop.some one roared: "horse down!" one instant of painful suspense, in whichimagination pictured another tragedy added to the record of this deceitful river--amoment filled with intense feeling, and
sensation of splash, and yell, and fury of action; then the three able horses draggedtheir comrade out of the quicksand. he regained his feet, and plunged on. spurred by fear, the horses increased theirefforts, and amid clouds of spray, galloped the remaining distance to the other side.jones looked disgusted. like all plainsmen, he hated water. emmett and his men calmly unhitched.no trace of alarm, or even of excitement showed in their bronzed faces."we made that fine and easy," remarked emmett.
so i sat down and wondered what jones andemmett, and these men would consider really hazardous. i began to have a feeling that i would findout; that experience for me was but in its infancy; that far across the desert thesomething which had called me would show hard, keen, perilous life. and i began to think of reserve powers offortitude and endurance. the other wagons were brought acrosswithout mishap; but the dogs did not come with them. jones called and called.the dogs howled and howled.
finally i waded out over the wet bars andlittle streams to a point several hundred yards nearer the dogs. moze was lying down, but the others werewhining and howling in a state of great perturbation.i called and called. they answered, and even ran into the water,but did not start across. "hyah, moze! hyah, you indian!"i yelled, losing my patience. "you've already swum the big colorado, andthis is only a brook. come on!"this appeal evidently touched moze, for he barked, and plunged in.
he made the water fly, and when carried offhis feet, breasted the current with energy and power.he made shore almost even with me, and wagged his tail. not to be outdone, jude, tige and donfollowed suit, and first one and then another was swept off his feet and carrieddownstream. they landed below me. this left ranger, the pup, alone on theother shore. of all the pitiful yelps ever uttered by afrightened and lonely puppy, his were the most forlorn i had ever heard.
time after time he plunged in, and withmany bitter howls of distress, went back. i kept calling, and at last, hoping to makehim come by a show of indifference, i started away. this broke his heart.putting up his head, he let out a long, melancholy wail, which for aught i knewmight have been a prayer, and then consigned himself to the yellow current. ranger swam like a boy learning.he seemed to be afraid to get wet. his forefeet were continually pawing theair in front of his nose. when he struck the swift place, he wentdownstream like a flash, but still kept
swimming valiantly.i tried to follow along the sand-bar, but found it impossible. i encouraged him by yelling.he drifted far below, stranded on an island, crossed it, and plunged in again,to make shore almost out of my sight. and when at last i got to dry sand, therewas ranger, wet and disheveled, but consciously proud and happy. after lunch we entered upon the seventy-mile stretch from the little to the big colorado. imagination had pictured the desert for meas a vast, sandy plain, flat and
monotonous. reality showed me desolate mountainsgleaming bare in the sun, long lines of red bluffs, white sand dunes, and hills of blueclay, areas of level ground--in all, a many-hued, boundless world in itself, wonderful and beautiful, fading all aroundinto the purple haze of deceiving distance. thin, clear, sweet, dry, the desert aircarried a languor, a dreaminess, tidings of far-off things, and an enthralling promise. the fragrance of flowers, the beauty andgrace of women, the sweetness of music, the mystery of life--all seemed to float onthat promise.
it was the air breathed by the lotus-eaters, when they dreamed, and wandered no more.beyond the little colorado, we began to climb again. the sand was thick; the horses labored; thedrivers shielded their faces. the dogs began to limp and lag. ranger had to be taken into a wagon; andthen, one by one, all of the other dogs except moze.he refused to ride, and trotted along with his head down. far to the front the pink cliffs, theragged mesas, the dark, volcanic spurs of
the big colorado stood up and beckoned usonward. but they were a far hundred miles acrossthe shifting sands, and baked day, and ragged rocks. always in the rear rose the san franciscopeaks, cold and pure, startlingly clear and close in the rare atmosphere. we camped near another water hole, locatedin a deep, yellow-colored gorge, crumbling to pieces, a ruin of rock, and silent asthe grave. in the bottom of the canyon was a pool ofwater, covered with green scum. my thirst was effectually quenched by themere sight of it.
i slept poorly, and lay for hours watchingthe great stars. the silence was painfully oppressive. if jones had not begun to give arespectable imitation of the exhaust pipe on a steamboat, i should have beencompelled to shout aloud, or get up; but this snoring would have dispelled anything. the morning came gray and cheerless.i got up stiff and sore, with a tongue like a rope.all day long we ran the gauntlet of the hot, flying sand. night came again, a cold, windy night.i slept well until a mule stepped on my
bed, which was conducive to restlessness.at dawn, cold, gray clouds tried to blot out the rosy east. i could hardly get up.my lips were cracked; my tongue swollen to twice its natural size; my eyes smarted andburned. the barrels and kegs of water wereexhausted. holes that had been dug in the dry sand ofa dry streambed the night before in the morning yielded a scant supply of muddyalkali water, which went to the horses. only twice that day did i rouse to anythingresembling enthusiasm. we came to a stretch of country showing thewonderful diversity of the desert land.
a long range of beautifully rounded claystones bordered the trail. so symmetrical were they that i imaginedthem works of sculptors. light blue, dark blue, clay blue, marineblue, cobalt blue--every shade of blue was there, but no other color. the other time that i awoke to sensationsfrom without was when we came to the top of a ridge.we had been passing through red-lands. jones called the place a strong, specificword which really was illustrative of the heat amid those scaling red ridges.we came out where the red changed abruptly to gray.
i seemed always to see things first, and icried out: "look! here are a red lake and trees!" "no, lad, not a lake," said old jim,smiling at me; "that's what haunts the desert traveler.it's only mirage!" so i awoke to the realization of thatillusive thing, the mirage, a beautiful lie, false as stairs of sand.far northward a clear rippling lake sparkled in the sunshine. tall, stately trees, with waving greenfoliage, bordered the water. for a long moment it lay there, smiling inthe sun, a thing almost tangible; and then
it faded. i felt a sense of actual loss.so real had been the illusion that i could not believe i was not soon to drink andwade and dabble in the cool waters. disappointment was keen. this is what maddens the prospector orsheep-herder lost in the desert. was it not a terrible thing to be dying ofthirst, to see sparkling water, almost to smell it and then realize suddenly that allwas only a lying track of the desert, a lure, a delusion? i ceased to wonder at the mormons, andtheir search for water, their talk of
water.but i had not realized its true significance. i had not known what water was.i had never appreciated it. so it was my destiny to learn that water isthe greatest thing on earth. i hung over a three-foot hole in a drystream-bed, and watched it ooze and seep through the sand, and fill up--oh, soslowly; and i felt it loosen my parched tongue, and steal through all my dry bodywith strength and life. water is said to constitute three fourthsof the universe. however that may be, on the desert it isthe whole world, and all of life.
two days passed by, all hot sand and windand glare. the mormons sang no more at evening; joneswas silent; the dogs were limp as rags. at moncaupie wash we ran into a sandstorm.the horses turned their backs to it, and bowed their heads patiently. the mormons covered themselves.i wrapped a blanket round my head and hid behind a sage bush.the wind, carrying the sand, made a strange hollow roar. all was enveloped in a weird yellowopacity. the sand seeped through the sage bush andswept by with a soft, rustling sound, not
unlike the wind in the rye. from time to time i raised a corner of myblanket and peeped out. where my feet had stretched was an enormousmound of sand. i felt the blanket, weighted down, slowlysettle over me. suddenly as it had come, the sandstormpassed. it left a changed world for us. the trail was covered; the wheels hub-deepin sand; the horses, walking sand dunes. i could not close my teeth without gratingharshly on sand. we journeyed onward, and passed long linesof petrified trees, some a hundred feet in
length, lying as they had fallen, thousandsof years before. white ants crawled among the ruins. slowly climbing the sandy trail, we circleda great red bluff with jagged peaks, that had seemed an interminable obstacle.a scant growth of cedar and sage again made its appearance. here we halted to pass another night.under a cedar i heard the plaintive, piteous bleat of an animal. i searched, and presently found a littleblack and white lamb, scarcely able to stand.it came readily to me, and i carried it to
the wagon. "that's a navajo lamb," said emmett."it's lost. there are navajo indians close by.""away in the desert we heard its cry," quoted one of the mormons. jones and i climbed the red mesa near campto see the sunset. all the western world was ablaze in goldenglory. shafts of light shot toward the zenith, andbands of paler gold, tinging to rose, circled away from the fiery, sinking globe. suddenly the sun sank, the gold changed togray, then to purple, and shadows formed in
the deep gorge at our feet. so sudden was the transformation that soonit was night, the solemn, impressive night of the desert. a stillness that seemed too sacred to breakclasped the place; it was infinite; it held the bygone ages, and eternity.more days, and miles, miles, miles! the last day's ride to the big colorado wasunforgettable. we rode toward the head of a gigantic redcliff pocket, a veritable inferno, immeasurably hot, glaring, awful. it towered higher and higher above us.
when we reached a point of this redbarrier, we heard the dull rumbling roar of water, and we came out, at length, on awinding trail cut in the face of a blue overhanging the colorado river. the first sight of most famous and much-heralded wonders of nature is often disappointing; but never can this be saidof the blood-hued rio colorado. if it had beauty, it was beauty thatappalled. so riveted was my gaze that i could hardlyturn it across the river, where emmett proudly pointed out his lonely home--anoasis set down amidst beetling red cliffs. how grateful to the eye was the green ofalfalfa and cottonwood!
going round the bluff trail, the wheels hadonly a foot of room to spare; and the sheer descent into the red, turbid, congestedriver was terrifying. i saw the constricted rapids, where thecolorado took its plunge into the box-like head of the grand canyon of arizona; andthe deep, reverberating boom of the river, at flood height, was a fearful thing tohear. i could not repress a shudder at thethought of crossing above that rapid. the bronze walls widened as we proceeded,and we got down presently to a level, where a long wire cable stretched across theriver. under the cable ran a rope.
on the other side was an old scow moored tothe bank. "are we going across in that?"i asked emmett, pointing to the boat. "we'll all be on the other side beforedark," he replied cheerily. i felt that i would rather start back aloneover the desert than trust myself in such a craft, on such a river. and it was all because i had had experiencewith bad rivers, and thought i was a judge of dangerous currents. the colorado slid with a menacing roar outof a giant split in the red wall, and whirled, eddied, bulged on toward itsconfinement in the iron-ribbed canyon
below. in answer to shots fired, emmett's manappeared on the other side, and rode down to the ferry landing. here he got into a skiff, and rowedlaboriously upstream for a long distance before he started across, and then swunginto the current. he swept down rapidly, and twice the skiffwhirled, and completely turned round; but he reached our bank safely. taking two men aboard he rowed upstreamagain, close to the shore, and returned to the opposite side in much the same mannerin which he had come over.
the three men pushed out the scow, andgrasping the rope overhead, began to pull. the big craft ran easily. when the current struck it, the wire cablesagged, the water boiled and surged under it, raising one end, and then the other.nevertheless, five minutes were all that were required to pull the boat over. it was a rude, oblong affair, made of heavyplanks loosely put together, and it leaked. when jones suggested that we get the agonyover as quickly as possible, i was with him, and we embarked together. jones said he did not like the looks of thetackle; and when i thought of his by no
means small mechanical skill, i had notadded a cheerful idea to my consciousness. the horses of the first team had to bedragged upon the scow, and once on, they reared and plunged. when we started, four men pulled the rope,and emmett sat in the stern, with the tackle guys in hand. as the current hit us, he let out the guys,which maneuver caused the boat to swing stern downstream.when it pointed obliquely, he made fast the guys again. i saw that this served two purposes: thecurrent struck, slid alongside, and over
the stern, which mitigated the danger, andat the same time helped the boat across. to look at the river was to court terror,but i had to look. it was an infernal thing.it roared in hollow, sullen voice, as a monster growling. it had voice, this river, and one strangelychangeful. it moaned as if in pain--it whined, itcried. then at times it would seem strangelysilent. the current as complex and mutable as humanlife. it boiled, beat and bulged.
the bulge itself was an incompressiblething, like a roaring lift of the waters from submarine explosion.then it would smooth out, and run like oil. it shifted from one channel to another,rushed to the center of the river, then swung close to one shore or the other.again it swelled near the boat, in great, boiling, hissing eddies. "look!see where it breaks through the mountain!" yelled jones in my ear. i looked upstream to see the stupendousgranite walls separated in a gigantic split that must have been made by a terribleseismic disturbance; and from this gap
poured the dark, turgid, mystic flood. i was in a cold sweat when we touchedshore, and i jumped long before the boat was properly moored.emmett was wet to the waist where the water had surged over him. as he sat rearranging some tackle iremarked to him that of course he must be a splendid swimmer, or he would not take suchrisks. "no, i can't swim a stroke," he replied;"and it wouldn't be any use if i could. once in there a man's a goner.""you've had bad accidents here?" i questioned.
"no, not bad.we only drowned two men last year. you see, we had to tow the boat up theriver, and row across, as then we hadn't the wire. just above, on this side, the boat hit astone, and the current washed over her, taking off the team and two men.""didn't you attempt to rescue them?" i asked, after waiting a moment. "no use.they never came up." "isn't the river high now?"i continued, shuddering as i glanced out at the whirling logs and drifts.
"high, and coming up.if i don't get the other teams over to-day i'll wait until she goes down. at this season she rises and lowers everyday or so, until june then comes the big flood, and we don't cross for months." i sat for three hours watching emmett bringover the rest of his party, which he did without accident, but at the expense ofgreat effort. and all the time in my ears dinned theroar, the boom, the rumble of this singularly rapacious and purposeful river--a river of silt, a red river of dark, sinister meaning, a river with terrible
work to perform, a river which never gaveup its dead. chapter 2.the range after a much-needed rest at emmett's, webade good-by to him and his hospitable family, and under the guidance of his manonce more took to the wind-swept trail. we pursued a southwesterly course now,following the lead of the craggy red wall that stretched on and on for hundreds ofmiles into utah. the desert, smoky and hot, fell away to theleft, and in the foreground a dark, irregular line marked the grand canyoncutting through the plateau. the wind whipped in from the vast, openexpanse, and meeting an obstacle in the red
wall, turned north and raced past us.jones's hat blew off, stood on its rim, and rolled. it kept on rolling, thirty miles an hour,more or less; so fast, at least, that we were a long time catching up to it with ateam of horses. possibly we never would have caught it hadnot a stone checked its flight. further manifestation of the power of thedesert wind surrounded us on all sides. it had hollowed out huge stones from thecliffs, and tumbled them to the plain below; and then, sweeping sand and gravellow across the desert floor, had cut them deeply, until they rested on slender
pedestals, thus sculptoring grotesque andstriking monuments to the marvelous persistence of this element of nature. late that afternoon, as we reached theheight of the plateau, jones woke up and shouted: "ha! there's buckskin!"far southward lay a long, black mountain, covered with patches of shining snow. i could follow the zigzag line of the grandcanyon splitting the desert plateau, and saw it disappear in the haze round the endof the mountain. from this i got my first clear impressionof the topography of the country surrounding our objective point.
buckskin mountain ran its blunt endeastward to the canyon--in fact, formed a hundred miles of the north rim. as it was nine thousand feet high it stillheld the snow, which had occasioned our lengthy desert ride to get back of themountain. i could see the long slopes rising out ofthe desert to meet the timber. as we bowled merrily down grade i noticedthat we were no longer on stony ground, and that a little scant silvery grass had madeits appearance. then little branches of green, with a blueflower, smiled out of the clayish sand. all of a sudden jones stood up, and let outa wild comanche yell.
i was more startled by the yell than by thegreat hand he smashed down on my shoulder, and for the moment i was dazed."there! look! look! the buffalo! hi! hi! hi!" below us, a few miles on a rising knoll, abig herd of buffalo shone black in the gold of the evening sun. i had not jones's incentive, but i feltenthusiasm born of the wild and beautiful picture, and added my yell to his. the huge, burly leader of the herd liftedhis head, and after regarding us for a few moments calmly went on browsing.
the desert had fringed away into a grandrolling pastureland, walled in by the red cliffs, the slopes of buckskin, and furtherisolated by the canyon. here was a range of twenty-four hundredsquare miles without a foot of barb-wire, a pasture fenced in by natural forces, withthe splendid feature that the buffalo could browse on the plain in winter, and go up into the cool foothills of buckskin insummer. from another ridge we saw a cabin dottingthe rolling plain, and in half an hour we reached it. as we climbed down from the wagon a brownand black dog came dashing out of the
cabin, and promptly jumped at moze. his selection showed poor discrimination,for moze whipped him before i could separate them. hearing jones heartily greeting some one,i turned in his direction, only to be distracted by another dog fight.don had tackled moze for the seventh time. memory rankled in don, and he needed a lotof whipping, some of which he was getting when i rescued him.next moment i was shaking hands with frank and jim, jones's ranchmen. at a glance i liked them both.frank was short and wiry, and had a big,
ferocious mustache, the effect of which wassoftened by his kindly brown eyes. jim was tall, a little heavier; he had acareless, tidy look; his eyes were searching, and though he appeared a youngman, his hair was white. "i shore am glad to see you all," said jim,in slow, soft, southern accent. "get down, get down," was frank's welcome--a typically western one, for we had already gotten down; "an' come in. you must be worked out.sure you've come a long way." he was quick of speech, full of nervousenergy, and beamed with hospitality. the cabin was the rudest kind of logaffair, with a huge stone fireplace in one
end, deer antlers and coyote skins on thewall, saddles and cowboys' traps in a corner, a nice, large, promising cupboard,and a table and chairs. jim threw wood on a smoldering fire, thatsoon blazed and crackled cheerily. i sank down into a chair with a feeling ofblessed relief. ten days of desert ride behind me!promise of wonderful days before me, with the last of the old plainsmen. no wonder a sweet sense of ease stole overme, or that the fire seemed a live and joyously welcoming thing, or that jim'sdeft maneuvers in preparation of supper roused in me a rapt admiration.
"twenty calves this spring!" cried jones,punching me in my sore side. "ten thousand dollars worth of calves!" he was now altogether a changed man; helooked almost young; his eyes danced, and he rubbed his big hands together while heplied frank with questions. in strange surroundings--that is, away fromhis native wilds, jones had been a silent man; it had been almost impossible to getanything out of him. but now i saw that i should come to knowthe real man. in a very few moments he had talked morethan on all the desert trip, and what he said, added to the little i had alreadylearned, put me in possession of some
interesting information as to his buffalo. some years before he had conceived the ideaof hybridizing buffalo with black galloway cattle; and with the characteristicdetermination and energy of the man, he at once set about finding a suitable range. this was difficult, and took years ofsearching. at last the wild north rim of the grandcanyon, a section unknown except to a few indians and mustang hunters, was settledupon. then the gigantic task of transporting theherd of buffalo by rail from montana to salt lake was begun.
the two hundred and ninety miles of desertlying between the home of the mormons and buckskin mountain was an obstacle almostinsurmountable. the journey was undertaken and found evenmore trying than had been expected. buffalo after buffalo died on the way. then frank, jones's right-hand man, putinto execution a plan he had been thinking of--namely, to travel by night.it succeeded. the buffalo rested in the day and traveledby easy stages by night, with the result that the big herd was transported to theideal range. here, in an environment strange to theirrace, but peculiarly adaptable, they
thrived and multiplied.the hybrid of the galloway cow and buffalo proved a great success. jones called the new species "cattalo."the cattalo took the hardiness of the buffalo, and never required artificial foodor shelter. he would face the desert storm or blizzardand stand stock still in his tracks until the weather cleared. he became quite domestic, could be easilyhandled, and grew exceedingly fat on very little provender. the folds of his stomach were so numerousthat they digested even the hardest and
flintiest of corn. he had fourteen ribs on each side, whiledomestic cattle had only thirteen; thus he could endure rougher work and longerjourneys to water. his fur was so dense and glossy that itequaled that of the unplucked beaver or otter, and was fully as valuable as thebuffalo robe. and not to be overlooked by any means wasthe fact that his meat was delicious. jones had to hear every detail of all thathad happened since his absence in the east, and he was particularly inquisitive tolearn all about the twenty cattalo calves. he called different buffalo by name; anddesignated the calves by descriptive terms,
such as "whiteface" and "crosspatch."he almost forgot to eat, and kept frank too busy to get anything into his own mouth. after supper he calmed down."how about your other man--mr. wallace, i think you said?" asked frank."we expected to meet him at grand canyon station, and then at flagstaff. but he didn't show up.either he backed out or missed us. i'm sorry; for when we get up on buckskin,among the wild horses and cougars, we'll be likely to need him." "i reckon you'll need me, as well as jim,"said frank dryly, with a twinkle in his
eye."the buffs are in good shape an' can get along without me for a while." "that'll be fine.how about cougar sign on the mountain?" "plenty.i've got two spotted near clark spring. comin' over two weeks ago i tracked them inthe snow along the trail for miles. we'll ooze over that way, as it's goin'toward the siwash. the siwash breaks of the canyon--there'sthe place for lions. i met a wild-horse wrangler not long back,an' he was tellin' me about old tom an' the colts he'd killed this winter."
naturally, i here expressed a desire toknow more of old tom. "he's the biggest cougar ever known of inthese parts. his tracks are bigger than a horse's, an'have been seen on buckskin for twelve years. this wrangler--his name is clark--said he'dturned his saddle horse out to graze near camp, an' old tom sneaked in an' downedhim. the lions over there are sure a bold bunch. well, why shouldn't they be?no one ever hunted them. you see, the mountain is hard to get at.but now you're here, if it's big cats you
want we sure can find them. only be easy, be easy.you've all the time there is. an' any job on buckskin will take time.we'll look the calves over, an' you must ride the range to harden up. then we'll ooze over toward oak.i expect it'll be boggy, an' i hope the snow melts soon.""the snow hadn't melted on greenland point," replied jones. "we saw that with a glass from the eltovar. we wanted to cross that way, but rust saidbright angel creek was breast high to a
horse, and that creek is the trail." "there's four feet of snow on greenland,"said frank. "it was too early to come that way.there's only about three months in the year the canyon can be crossed at greenland." "i want to get in the snow," returnedjones. "this bunch of long-eared canines i broughtnever smelled a lion track. hounds can't be trained quick without snow. you've got to see what they're trailing, oryou can't break them." frank looked dubious."'pears to me we'll have trouble gettin' a
lion without lion dogs. it takes a long time to break a hound offof deer, once he's chased them. buckskin is full of deer, wolves, coyotes,and there's the wild horses. we couldn't go a hundred feet withoutcrossin' trails." "how's the hound you and jim fetched inlas' year? has he got a good nose? here he is--i like his head.come here, bowser--what's his name?" "jim named him sounder, because he sure hasa voice. it's great to hear him on a trail.
sounder has a nose that can't be fooled,an' he'll trail anythin'; but i don't know if he ever got up a lion."sounder wagged his bushy tail and looked up affectionately at frank. he had a fine head, great brown eyes, verylong ears and curly brownish-black hair. he was not demonstrative, looked ratheraskance at jones, and avoided the other dogs. "that dog will make a great lion-chaser,"said jones, decisively, after his study of sounder."he and moze will keep us busy, once they learn we want lions."
"i don't believe any dog-trainer couldteach them short of six months," replied frank. "sounder is no spring chicken; an' thatblack and dirty white cross between a cayuse an' a barb-wire fence is an old dog.you can't teach old dogs new tricks." jones smiled mysteriously, a smile ofconscious superiority, but said nothing. "we'll shore hev a storm to-morrow," saidjim, relinquishing his pipe long enough to speak. he had been silent, and now his meditativegaze was on the west, through the cabin window, where a dull afterglow faded underthe heavy laden clouds of night and left
the horizon dark. i was very tired when i lay down, but sofull of excitement that sleep did not soon visit my eyelids. the talk about buffalo, wild-horse hunters,lions and dogs, the prospect of hard riding and unusual adventure; the vision of oldtom that had already begun to haunt me, filled my mind with pictures and fancies. the other fellows dropped off to sleep, andquiet reigned. suddenly a succession of queer, sharp barkscame from the plain, close to the cabin. coyotes were paying us a call, and judgingfrom the chorus of yelps and howls from our
dogs, it was not a welcome visit. above the medley rose one big, deep, fullvoice that i knew at once belonged to sounder.then all was quiet again. sleep gradually benumbed my senses. vague phrases dreamily drifted to and froin my mind: "jones's wild range--old tom-- sounder--great name--great voice--sounder!sounder! sounder--" next morning i could hardly crawl out of mysleeping-bag. my bones ached, my muscles protestedexcruciatingly, my lips burned and bled,
and the cold i had contracted on the desertclung to me. a good brisk walk round the corrals, andthen breakfast, made me feel better. "of course you can ride?" queried frank.my answer was not given from an overwhelming desire to be truthful. frank frowned a little, as it wondering howa man could have the nerve to start out on a jaunt with buffalo jones without being agood horseman. to be unable to stick on the back of a wildmustang, or a cayuse, was an unpardonable sin in arizona. my frank admission was made relatively,with my mind on what cowboys held as a
standard of horsemanship. the mount frank trotted out of the corralfor me was a pure white, beautiful mustang, nervous, sensitive, quivering. i watched frank put on the saddle, and whenhe called me i did not fail to catch a covert twinkle in his merry brown eyes. looking away toward buckskin mountain,which was coincidentally in the direction of home, i said to myself: "this may bewhere you get on, but most certainly it is where you get off!" jones was already riding far beyond thecorral, as i could see by a cloud of dust;
and i set off after him, with the painfulconsciousness that i must have looked to frank and jim much as central parkequestrians had often looked to me. frank shouted after me that he would catchup with us out on the range. i was not in any great hurry to overtakejones, but evidently my horse's inclinations differed from mine; at anyrate, he made the dust fly, and jumped the little sage bushes. jones, who had tarried to inspect one ofthe pools--formed of running water from the corrals--greeted me as i came up with thischeerful observation. "what in thunder did frank give you thatwhite nag for?
the buffalo hate white horses--anythingwhite. they're liable to stampede off the range,or chase you into the canyon." i replied grimly that, as it was certainsomething was going to happen, the particular circumstance might as well comeoff quickly. we rode over the rolling plain with a cool,bracing breeze in our faces. the sky was dull and mottled with abeautiful cloud effect that presaged wind. as we trotted along jones pointed out to meand descanted upon the nutritive value of three different kinds of grass, one ofwhich he called the buffalo pea, noteworthy for a beautiful blue blossom.
soon we passed out of sight of the cabin,and could see only the billowy plain, the red tips of the stony wall, and the black-fringed crest of buckskin. after riding a while we made out somecattle, a few of which were on the range, browsing in the lee of a ridge.no sooner had i marked them than jones let out another comanche yell. "wolf!" he yelled; and spurring his bigbay, he was off like the wind. a single glance showed me several cowsrunning as if bewildered, and near them a big white wolf pulling down a calf. another white wolf stood not far off.my horse jumped as if he had been shot; and
the realization darted upon me that herewas where the certain something began. spot--the mustang had one black spot in hispure white--snorted like i imagined a blooded horse might, under dire insult.jones's bay had gotten about a hundred paces the start. i lived to learn that spot hated to be leftbehind; moreover, he would not be left behind; he was the swiftest horse on therange, and proud of the distinction. i cast one unmentionable word on the breezetoward the cabin and frank, then put mind and muscle to the sore task of remainingwith spot. jones was born on a saddle, and had beentaking his meals in a saddle for about
sixty-three years, and the bay horse couldrun. run is not a felicitous word--he flew. and i was rendered mentally deranged forthe moment to see that hundred paces between the bay and spot materially lessenat every jump. spot lengthened out, seemed to go down nearthe ground, and cut the air like a high- geared auto. if i had not heard the fast rhythmic beatof his hoofs, and had not bounced high into the air at every jump, i would have beensure i was riding a bird. i tried to stop him.
as well might i have tried to pull in thelusitania with a thread. spot was out to overhaul that bay, and inspite of me, he was doing it. the wind rushed into my face and sang in myears. jones seemed the nucleus of a sort of haze,and it grew larger and larger. presently he became clearly defined in mysight; the violent commotion under me subsided; i once more felt the saddle, andthen i realized that spot had been content to stop alongside of jones, tossing hishead and champing his bit. "well, by george!i didn't know you were in the stretch," cried my companion.
"that was a fine little brush.we must have come several miles. i'd have killed those wolves if i'd broughta gun. the big one that had the calf was a boldbrute. he never let go until i was within fiftyfeet of him. then i almost rode him down. i don't think the calf was much hurt.but those blood-thirsty devils will return, and like as not get the calf.that's the worst of cattle raising. now, take the buffalo. do you suppose those wolves could havegotten a buffalo calf out from under the
mother?never. neither could a whole band of wolves. buffalo stick close together, and thelittle ones do not stray. when danger threatens, the herd closes inand faces it and fights. that is what is grand about the buffalo andwhat made them once roam the prairies in countless, endless droves." from the highest elevation in that part ofthe range we viewed the surrounding ridges, flats and hollows, searching for thebuffalo. at length we spied a cloud of dust risingfrom behind an undulating mound, then big
black dots hove in sight."frank has rounded up the herd, and is driving it this way. we'll wait," said jones.though the buffalo appeared to be moving fast, a long time elapsed before theyreached the foot of our outlook. they lumbered along in a compact mass, sodense that i could not count them, but i estimated the number at seventy-five.frank was riding zigzag behind them, swinging his lariat and yelling. when he espied us he reined in his horseand waited. then the herd slowed down, halted and beganbrowsing.
"look at the cattalo calves," cried jones,in ecstatic tones. "see how shy they are, how close they stickto their mothers." the little dark-brown fellows were plainlyfrightened. i made several unsuccessful attempts tophotograph them, and gave it up when jones told me not to ride too close and that itwould be better to wait till we had them in the corral. he took my camera and instructed me to goon ahead, in the rear of the herd. i heard the click of the instrument as hesnapped a picture, and then suddenly heard him shout in alarm: "look out! look out!pull your horse!"
thundering hoof-beats pounding the earthaccompanied his words. i saw a big bull, with head down, tailraised, charging my horse. he answered frank's yell of command with afurious grunt. i was paralyzed at the wonderfully swiftaction of the shaggy brute, and i sat helpless. spot wheeled as if he were on a pivot andplunged out of the way with a celerity that was astounding.the buffalo stopped, pawed the ground, and angrily tossed his huge head. frank rode up to him, yelled, and struckhim with the lariat, whereupon he gave
another toss of his horns, and thenreturned to the herd. "it was that darned white nag," said jones. "frank, it was wrong to put aninexperienced man on spot. for that matter, the horse should never beallowed to go near the buffalo." "spot knows the buffs; they'd never get tohim," replied frank. but the usual spirit was absent from hisvoice, and he glanced at me soberly. i knew i had turned white, for i felt thepeculiar cold sensation on my face. "now, look at that, will you?" cried jones."i don't like the looks of that." he pointed to the herd.
they stopped browsing, and were uneasilyshifting to and fro. the bull lifted his head; the others slowlygrouped together. "storm! sandstorm!" exclaimed jones, pointingdesert-ward. dark yellow clouds like smoke were rolling,sweeping, bearing down upon us. they expanded, blossoming out like giganticroses, and whirled and merged into one another, all the time rolling on andblotting out the light. "we've got to run. that storm may last two days," yelled frankto me.
"we've had some bad ones lately.give your horse free rein, and cover your face." a roar, resembling an approaching storm atsea, came on puffs of wind, as the horses got into their stride. long streaks of dust whipped up indifferent places; the silver-white grass bent to the ground; round bunches of sagewent rolling before us. the puffs grew longer, steadier, harder. then a shrieking blast howled on our trail,seeming to swoop down on us with a yellow, blinding pall.i shut my eyes and covered my face with a
handkerchief. the sand blew so thick that it filled mygloves, pebbles struck me hard enough to sting through my coat. fortunately, spot kept to an easy swinginglope, which was the most comfortable motion for me.but i began to get numb, and could hardly stick on the saddle. almost before i had dared to hope, spotstopped. uncovering my face, i saw jim in thedoorway of the lee side of the cabin. the yellow, streaky, whistling clouds ofsand split on the cabin and passed on,
leaving a small, dusty space of light."shore spot do hate to be beat," yelled jim, as he helped me off. i stumbled into the cabin and fell upon abuffalo robe and lay there absolutely spent. jones and frank came in a few minutesapart, each anathematizing the gritty, powdery sand.all day the desert storm raged and roared. the dust sifted through the numerous cracksin the cabin burdened our clothes, spoiled our food and blinded our eyes. wind, snow, sleet and rainstorms arediscomforting enough under trying
circumstances; but all combined, they arenothing to the choking stinging, blinding sandstorm. "shore it'll let up by sundown," averredjim. and sure enough the roar died away aboutfive o'clock, the wind abated and the sand settled. just before supper, a knock sounded heavilyo the cabin door. jim opened it to admit one of emmett's sonsand a very tall man whom none of us knew. he was a sand-man. all that was not sand seemed a space or twoof corduroy, a big bone-handled knife, a
prominent square jaw and bronze cheek andflashing eyes. "get down--get down, an' come in, stranger,said frank cordially. "how do you do, sir," said jones. "colonel jones, i've been on your trail fortwelve days," announced the stranger, with a grim smile.the sand streamed off his coat in little white streak. jones appeared to be casting about in hismind. "i'm grant wallace," continued thenewcomer. "i missed you at the el tovar, at williamsand at flagstaff, where i was one day
behind. was half a day late at the little colorado,saw your train cross moncaupie wash, and missed you because of the sandstorm there. saw you from the other side of the bigcolorado as you rode out from emmett's along the red wall.and here i am. we've never met till now, which obviouslyisn't my fault." the colonel and i fell upon wallace's neck. frank manifested his usual alertexcitation, and said: "well, i guess he won't hang fire on a long cougar chase."
and jim--slow, careful jim, dropped a platewith the exclamation: "shore it do beat hell!"the hounds sniffed round wallace, and welcomed him with vigorous tails. supper that night, even if we did grindsand with our teeth, was a joyous occasion. the biscuits were flaky and light; thebacon fragrant and crisp. i produced a jar of blackberry jam, whichby subtle cunning i had been able to secrete from the mormons on that dry desertride, and it was greeted with acclamations of pleasure. wallace, divested of his sand guise, beamedwith the gratification of a hungry man once
more in the presence of friends and food. he made large cavities in jim's great potof potato stew, and caused biscuits to vanish in a way that would not have shameda hindoo magician. the grand canyon he dug in my jar of jam,however, could not have been accomplished by legerdemain.talk became animated on dogs, cougars, horses and buffalo. jones told of our experience out on therange, and concluded with some salient remarks."a tame wild animal is the most dangerous of beasts.
my old friend, dick rock, a great hunterand guide out of idaho, laughed at my advice, and got killed by one of his three-year-old bulls. i told him they knew him just well enoughto kill him, and they did. my friend, a. h. cole, of oxford, nebraska,tried to rope a weetah that was too tame to be safe, and the bull killed him. same with general bull, a member of thekansas legislature, and two cowboys who went into a corral to tie up a tame elk atthe wrong time. i pleaded with them not to undertake it. they had not studied animals as i had.that tame elk killed all of them.
he had to be shot in order to get generalbull off his great antlers. you see, a wild animal must learn torespect a man. the way i used to teach the yellowstonepark bears to be respectful and safe neighbors was to rope them around the frontpaw, swing them up on a tree clear of the ground, and whip them with a long pole. it was a dangerous business, and lookscruel, but it is the only way i could find to make the bears good. you see, they eat scraps around the hotelsand get so tame they will steal everything but red-hot stoves, and will cuff the lifeout of those who try to shoo them off.
but after a bear mother has had a licking,she not only becomes a good bear for the rest of her life, but she tells all hercubs about it with a good smack of her paw, for emphasis, and teaches them to respect peaceable citizens generation aftergeneration. "one of the hardest jobs i ever tackled wasthat of supplying the buffalo for bronx park. i rounded up a magnificent 'king' buffalobull, belligerent enough to fight a battleship.when i rode after him the cowmen said i was as good as killed.
i made a lance by driving a nail into theend of a short pole and sharpening it. after he had chased me, i wheeled mybroncho, and hurled the lance into his back, ripping a wound as long as my hand. that put the fear of providence into himand took the fight all out of him. i drove him uphill and down, and acrosscanyons at a dead run for eight miles single handed, and loaded him on a freightcar; but he came near getting me once or twice, and only quick broncho work andlance play saved me. "in the yellowstone park all our buffaloeshave become docile, excepting the huge bull which led them.
the indians call the buffalo leader the'weetah,' the master of the herd. it was sure death to go near this one. so i shipped in another weetah, hoping thathe might whip some of the fight out of old manitou, the mighty. they came together head on, like a railwaycollision, and ripped up over a square mile of landscape, fighting till night came on,and then on into the night. "i jumped into the field with them, chasingthem with my biograph, getting a series of moving pictures of that bullfight which wassure the real thing. it was a ticklish thing to do, thoughknowing that neither bull dared take his
eyes off his adversary for a second, i feltreasonably safe. the old weetah beat the new champion outthat night, but the next morning they were at it again, and the new buffalo finallywhipped the old one into submission. since then his spirit has remained broken,and even a child can approach him safely-- but the new weetah is in turn a holyterror. "to handle buffalo, elk and bear, you mustget into sympathy with their methods of reasoning.no tenderfoot stands any show, even with the tame animals of the yellowstone." the old buffalo hunter's lips were nolonger locked.
one after another he told reminiscences ofhis eventful life, in a simple manner; yet so vivid and gripping were the unvarnisheddetails that i was spellbound. "considering what appears the impossibilityof capturing a full-grown buffalo, how did you earn the name of preserver of theamerican bison?" inquired wallace. "it took years to learn how, and ten moreto capture the fifty-eight that i was able to keep.i tried every plan under the sun. i roped hundreds, of all sizes and ages. they would not live in captivity.if they could not find an embankment over which to break their necks, they wouldcrush their skulls on stones.
failing any means like that, they would liedown, will themselves to die, and die. think of a savage wild nature that couldwill its heart to cease beating! but it's true. finally i found i could keep only calvesunder three months of age. but to capture them so young entailed timeand patience. for the buffalo fight for their young, andwhen i say fight, i mean till they drop. i almost always had to go alone, because icould neither coax nor hire any one to undertake it with me. sometimes i would be weeks getting onecalf.
one day i captured eight--eight littlebuffalo calves! never will i forget that day as long as ilive!" "tell us about it," i suggested, in amatter of fact, round-the-campfire voice. had the silent plainsman ever told acomplete and full story of his adventures? i doubted it.he was not the man to eulogize himself. a short silence ensued. the cabin was snug and warm; the ruddyembers glowed; one of jim's pots steamed musically and fragrantly.the hounds lay curled in the cozy chimney corner.
jones began to talk again, simply andunaffectedly, of his famous exploit; and as he went on so modestly, passing lightlyover features we recognized as wonderful, i allowed the fire of my imagination to fuse for myself all the toil, patience,endurance, skill, herculean strength and marvelous courage and unfathomable passionwhich he slighted in his narrative. chapter 3.the last herd over gray no-man's-land stole down theshadows of night. the undulating prairie shaded dark to thewestern horizon, rimmed with a fading streak of light.
tall figures, silhouetted sharply againstthe last golden glow of sunset, marked the rounded crest of a grassy knoll."wild hunter!" cried a voice in sullen rage, "buffalo or no, we halt here. did adams and i hire to cross the stakedplains? two weeks in no-man's-land, and now we'refacing the sand! we've one keg of water, yet you want tokeep on. why, man, you're crazy!you didn't tell us you wanted buffalo alive. and here you've got us looking death in theeye!"
in the grim silence that ensued the two menunhitched the team from the long, light wagon, while the buffalo hunter staked outhis wiry, lithe-limbed racehorses. soon a fluttering blaze threw a circle oflight, which shone on the agitated face of rude and adams, and the cold, iron-setvisage of their brawny leader. "it's this way," began jones, in slow, coolvoice; "i engaged you fellows, and you promised to stick by me.we've had no luck. but i've finally found sign--old sign, i'lladmit the buffalo i'm looking for--the last herd on the plains.for two years i've been hunting this herd. so have other hunters.
millions of buffalo have been killed andleft to rot. soon this herd will be gone, and then theonly buffalo in the world will be those i have given ten years of the hardest work incapturing. this is the last herd, i say, and my lastchance to capture a calf or two. do you imagine i'd quit?you fellows go back if you want, but i keep on." "we can't go back.we're lost. we'll have to go with you.but, man, thirst is not the only risk we run.
this is comanche country.and if that herd is in here the indians have it spotted.""that worries me some," replied the plainsman, "but we'll keep on it." they slept.the night wind swished the grasses; dark storm clouds blotted out the northernstars; the prairie wolves mourned dismally. day broke cold, wan, threatening, under aleaden sky. the hunters traveled thirty miles by noon,and halted in a hollow where a stream flowed in wet season. cottonwood trees were bursting into green;thickets of prickly thorn, dense and
matted, showed bright spring buds."what is it?" suddenly whispered rude. the plainsman lay in strained posture, hisear against the ground. "hide the wagon and horses in the clump ofcottonwoods," he ordered, tersely. springing to his feet, he ran to the top ofthe knoll above the hollow, where he again placed his ear to the ground. jones's practiced ear had detected thequavering rumble of far-away, thundering hoofs.he searched the wide waste of plain with his powerful glass. to the southwest, miles distant, a cloud ofdust mushroomed skyward.
"not buffalo," he muttered, "maybe wildhorses." he watched and waited. the yellow cloud rolled forward, enlarging,spreading out, and drove before it a darkly indistinct, moving mass.as soon as he had one good look at this he ran back to his comrades. "stampede!wild horses! indians!look to your rifles and hide!" wordless and pale, the men examined theirsharps, and made ready to follow jones. he slipped into the thorny brake and, flaton his stomach, wormed his way like a snake
far into the thickly interlaced web ofbranches. rude and adams crawled after him. words were superfluous.quiet, breathless, with beating hearts, the hunters pressed close to the dry grass. a long, low, steady rumble filled the air,and increased in volume till it became a roar.moments, endless moments, passed. the roar filled out like a flood slowlyreleased from its confines to sweep down with the sound of doom. the ground began to tremble and quake: thelight faded; the smell of dust pervaded the
thicket, then a continuous streaming roar,deafening as persistent roll of thunder, pervaded the hiding place. the stampeding horses had split round thehollow. the roar lessened. swiftly as a departing snow-squall rushingon through the pines, the thunderous thud and tramp of hoofs died away.the trained horses hidden in the cottonwoods never stirred. "lie low! lie low!" breathed the plainsmanto his companions. throb of hoofs again became audible, notloud and madly pounding as those that had
passed, but low, muffled, rhythmic. jones's sharp eye, through a peephole inthe thicket, saw a cream-colored mustang bob over the knoll, carrying an indian.another and another, then a swiftly following, close-packed throng appeared. bright red feathers and white gleamed;weapons glinted; gaunt, bronzed savage leaned forward on racy, slender mustangs.the plainsman shrank closer to the ground. "apache!" he exclaimed to himself, andgripped his rifle. the band galloped down to the hollow, andslowing up, piled single file over the bank.
the leader, a short, squat chief, plungedinto the brake not twenty yards from the hidden men.jones recognized the cream mustang; he knew the somber, sinister, broad face. it belonged to the red chief of theapaches. "geronimo!" murmured the plainsman throughhis teeth. well for the apache that no falcon savageeye discovered aught strange in the little hollow!one look at the sand of the stream bed would have cost him his life. but the indians crossed the thicket too farup; they cantered up the slope and
disappeared.the hoof-beats softened and ceased. "gone?" whispered rude. "gone.but wait," whispered jones. he knew the savage nature, and he knew howto wait. after a long time, he cautiously crawledout of the thicket and searched the surroundings with a plainsman's eye. he climbed the slope and saw the clouds ofdust, the near one small, the far one large, which told him all he needed toknow. "comanches?" queried adams, with a quaverin his voice.
he was new to the plains."likely," said jones, who thought it best not to tell all he knew. then he added to himself: "we've no time tolose. there's water back here somewhere. the indians have spotted the buffalo, andwere running the horses away from the water." the three got under way again, proceedingcarefully, so as not to raise the dust, and headed due southwest. scantier and scantier grew the grass; thehollows were washes of sand; steely gray
dunes, like long, flat, ocean swells,ribbed the prairie. the gray day declined. late into the purple night they traveled,then camped without fire. in the gray morning jones climbed a highride and scanned the southwest. low dun-colored sandhills waved from himdown and down, in slow, deceptive descent. a solitary and remote waste reached outinto gray infinitude. a pale lake, gray as the rest of that grayexpanse, glimmered in the distance. "mirage!" he muttered, focusing his glass,which only magnified all under the dead gray, steely sky.
"water must be somewhere; but can that beit? it's too pale and elusive to be real.no life--a blasted, staked plain! hello!" a thin, black, wavering line of wild fowl,moving in beautiful, rapid flight, crossed the line of his vision."geese flying north, and low. there's water here," he said. he followed the flock with his glass, sawthem circle over the lake, and vanish in the gray sheen."it's water." he hurried back to camp.
his haggard and worn companions scorned hisdiscovery. adams siding with rude, who knew theplains, said: "mirage! the lure of the desert!" yet dominated by a force too powerful forthem to resist, they followed the buffalo- hunter.all day the gleaming lake beckoned them onward, and seemed to recede. all day the drab clouds scudded before thecold north wind. in the gray twilight, the lake suddenly laybefore them, as if it had opened at their feet.
the men rejoiced, the horses lifted theirnoses and sniffed the damp air. the whinnies of the horses, the clank ofharness, and splash of water, the whirl of ducks did not blur out of jones's keen eara sound that made him jump. it was the thump of hoofs, in a familiarbeat, beat, beat. he saw a shadow moving up a ridge. soon, outlined black against the yet lightsky, a lone buffalo cow stood like a statue. a moment she held toward the lake, studyingthe danger, then went out of sight over the ridge.
jones spurred his horse up the ascent,which was rather long and steep, but he mounted the summit in time to see the cowjoin eight huge, shaggy buffalo. the hunter reined in his horse, andstanding high in his stirrups, held his hat at arms' length over his head.so he thrilled to a moment he had sought for two years. the last herd of american bison was near athand. the cow would not venture far from the mainherd; the eight stragglers were the old broken-down bulls that had been expelled,at this season, from the herd by younger and more vigorous bulls.
the old monarchs saw the hunter at the sametime his eyes were gladdened by sight of them, and lumbered away after the cow, todisappear in the gathering darkness. frightened buffalo always make straight fortheir fellows; and this knowledge contented jones to return to the lake, well satisfiedthat the herd would not be far away in the morning, within easy striking distance bydaylight. at dark the storm which had threatened fordays, broke in a fury of rain, sleet and hail. the hunters stretched a piece of canvasover the wheels of the north side of the wagon, and wet and shivering, crawled underit to their blankets.
during the night the storm raged withunabated strength. dawn, forbidding and raw, lightened to thewhistle of the sleety gusts. fire was out of the question. chary of weight, the hunters had carried nowood, and the buffalo chips they used for fuel were lumps of ice. grumbling, adams and rude ate a coldbreakfast, while jones, munching a biscuit, faced the biting blast from the crest ofthe ridge. the middle of the plain below held aragged, circular mass, as still as stone. it was the buffalo herd, with every shaggyhead to the storm.
so they would stand, never budging fromtheir tracks, till the blizzard of sleet was over. jones, though eager and impatient,restrained himself, for it was unwise to begin operations in the storm.there was nothing to do but wait. ill fared the hunters that day. food had to be eaten uncooked.the long hours dragged by with the little group huddled under icy blankets.when darkness fell, the sleet changed to drizzling rain. this blew over at midnight, and a colderwind, penetrating to the very marrow of the
sleepless men, made their condition worse.in the after part of the night, the wolves howled mournfully. with a gray, misty light appearing in theeast, jones threw off his stiff, ice- incased blanket, and crawled out. a gaunt gray wolf, the color of the day andthe sand and the lake, sneaked away, looking back. while moving and threshing about to warmhis frozen blood, jones munched another biscuit.five men crawled from under the wagon, and made an unfruitful search for the whisky.
fearing it, jones had thrown the bottleaway. the men cursed.the patient horses drooped sadly, and shivered in the lee of the improvised tent. jones kicked the inch-thick casing of icefrom his saddle. kentuck, his racer, had been spared on thewhole trip for this day's work. the thoroughbred was cold, but as jonesthrew the saddle over him, he showed that he knew the chase ahead, and was eager tobe off. at last, after repeated efforts with hisbenumbed fingers, jones got the girths tight.he tied a bunch of soft cords to the saddle
and mounted. "follow as fast as you can," he called tohis surly men. "the buffs will run north against the wind.this is the right direction for us; we'll soon leave the sand. stick to my trail and come a-humming."from the ridge he met the red sun, rising bright, and a keen northeasterly wind thatlashed like a whip. as he had anticipated, his quarry had movednorthward. kentuck let out into a swinging stride,which in an hour had the loping herd in sight.
every jump now took him upon higher ground,where the sand failed, and the grass grew thicker and began to bend under the wind. in the teeth of the nipping gale jonesslipped close upon the herd without alarming even a cow.more than a hundred little reddish-black calves leisurely loped in the rear. kentuck, keen to his work, crept on like awolf, and the hunter's great fist clenched the coiled lasso.before him expanded a boundless plain. a situation long cherished and dreamed ofhad become a reality. kentuck, fresh and strong, was good for allday.
jones gloated over the little red bulls andheifers, as a miser gloats over gold and jewels. never before had he caught more than two inone day, and often it had taken days to capture one. this was the last herd, this the lastopportunity toward perpetuating a grand race of beasts.and with born instinct he saw ahead the day of his life. at a touch, kentuck closed in, and thebuffalo, seeing him, stampeded into the heaving roll so well known to the hunter.
racing on the right flank of the herd,jones selected a tawny heifer and shot the lariat after her. it fell true, but being stiff and kinkyfrom the sleet, failed to tighten, and the quick calf leaped through the loop tofreedom. undismayed the pursuer quickly recoveredhis rope. again he whirled and sent the loop.again it circled true, and failed to close; again the agile heifer bounded through it. jones whipped the air with the stubbornrope. to lose a chance like that was worse thanboy's work.
the third whirl, running a smaller loop,tightened the coil round the frightened calf just back of its ears. a pull on the bridle brought kentuck to ahalt in his tracks, and the baby buffalo rolled over and over in the grass.jones bounced from his seat and jerked loose a couple of the soft cords. in a twinkling; his big knee crushed downon the calf, and his big hands bound it helpless.kentuck neighed. jones saw his black ears go up. danger threatened.for a moment the hunter's blood turned
chill, not from fear, for he never feltfear, but because he thought the indians were returning to ruin his work. his eye swept the plain.only the gray forms of wolves flitted through the grass, here, there, all abouthim. wolves! they were as fatal to his enterprise assavages. a trooping pack of prairie wolves hadfallen in with the herd and hung close on the trail, trying to cut a calf away fromits mother. the gray brutes boldly trotted to within afew yards of him, and slyly looked at him,
with pale, fiery eyes.they had already scented his captive. precious time flew by; the situation,critical and baffling, had never before been met by him. there lay his little calf tied fast, and tothe north ran many others, some of which he must--he would have.to think quickly had meant the solving of many a plainsman's problem. should he stay with his prize to save it,or leave it to be devoured? "ha! you old gray devils!" he yelled,shaking his fist at the wolves. "i know a trick or two."
slipping his hat between the legs of thecalf, he fastened it securely. this done, he vaulted on kentuck, and wasoff with never a backward glance. certain it was that the wolves would nottouch anything, alive or dead, that bore the scent of a human being. the bison scoured away a long half-mile inthe lead, sailing northward like a cloud- shadow over the plain. kentuck, mettlesome, over-eager, would haverun himself out in short order, but the wary hunter, strong to restrain as well asimpel, with the long day in his mind, kept the steed in his easy stride, which,
springy and stretching, overhauled the herdin the course of several miles. a dash, a swirl, a shock, a leap, horse andhunter working in perfect accord, and a fine big calf, bellowing lustily, struggleddesperately for freedom under the remorseless knee. the big hands toyed with him; and then,secure in the double knots, the calf lay still, sticking out his tongue and rollinghis eyes, with the coat of the hunter tucked under his bonds to keep away thewolves. the race had but begun; the horse had butwarmed to his work; the hunter had but tasted of sweet triumph.
another hopeful of a buffalo mother,negligent in danger, truant from his brothers, stumbled and fell in theenmeshing loop. the hunter's vest, slipped over the calf'sneck, served as danger signal to the wolves. before the lumbering buffalo missed theirloss, another red and black baby kicked helplessly on the grass and sent up vain,weak calls, and at last lay still, with the hunter's boot tied to his cords. four!jones counted them aloud, add in his mind, and kept on.
fast, hard work, covering upward of fifteenmiles, had begun to tell on herd, horse and man, and all slowed down to the call forstrength. the fifth time jones closed in on his game,he encountered different circumstances such as called forth his cunning. the herd had opened up; the mothers hadfallen back to the rear; the calves hung almost out of sight under the shaggy sidesof protectors. to try them out jones darted close andthrew his lasso. it struck a cow.with activity incredible in such a huge beast, she lunged at him.
kentuck, expecting just such a move,wheeled to safety. this duel, ineffectual on both sides, keptup for a while, and all the time, man and herd were jogging rapidly to the north. jones could not let well enough alone; heacknowledged this even as he swore he must have five. emboldened by his marvelous luck, andyielding headlong to the passion within, he threw caution to the winds. a lame old cow with a red calf caught hiseye; in he spurred his willing horse and slung his rope.it stung the haunch of the mother.
the mad grunt she vented was no quickerthan the velocity with which she plunged and reared.jones had but time to swing his leg over the saddle when the hoofs beat down. kentuck rolled on the plain, flinging hisrider from him. the infuriated buffalo lowered her head forthe fatal charge on the horse, when the plainsman, jerking out his heavy colts,shot her dead in her tracks. kentuck got to his feet unhurt, and stoodhis ground, quivering but ready, showing his steadfast courage. he showed more, for his ears lay back, andhis eyes had the gleam of the animal that
strikes back.the calf ran round its mother. jones lassoed it, and tied it down, beingcompelled to cut a piece from his lasso, as the cords on the saddle had given out.he left his other boot with baby number five. the still heaving, smoking body of thevictim called forth the stern, intrepid hunter's pity for a moment.spill of blood he had not wanted. but he had not been able to avoid it; andmounting again with close-shut jaw and smoldering eye, he galloped to the north. kentuck snorted; the pursuing wolves shiedoff in the grass; the pale sun began to
slant westward.the cold iron stirrups froze and cut the hunter's bootless feet. when once more he came hounding thebuffalo, they were considerably winded. short-tufted tails, raised stiffly, gavewarning. snorts, like puffs of escaping steam, anddeep grunts from cavernous chests evinced anger and impatience that might, at anymoment, bring the herd to a defiant stand. he whizzed the shortened noose over thehead of a calf that was laboring painfully to keep up, and had slipped down, when amighty grunt told him of peril. never looking to see whence it came, hesprang into the saddle.
fiery kentuck jumped into action, thenhauled up with a shock that almost threw himself and rider. the lasso, fast to the horse, and its loopend round the calf, had caused the sudden check.a maddened cow bore down on kentuck. the gallant horse straightened in a jump,but dragging the calf pulled him in a circle, and in another moment he wasrunning round and round the howling, kicking pivot. then ensued a terrible race, with horse andbison describing a twenty-foot circle. bang!bang!
the hunter fired two shots, and heard thespats of the bullets. but they only augmented the frenzy of thebeast. faster kentuck flew, snorting in terror;closer drew the dusty, bouncing pursuer; the calf spun like a top; the lasso strungtighter than wire. jones strained to loosen the fastening, butin vain. he swore at his carelessness in droppinghis knife by the last calf he had tied. he thought of shooting the rope, yet darednot risk the shot. a hollow sound turned him again, with thecolts leveled. bang!
dust flew from the ground beyond the bison.the two charges left in the gun were all that stood between him and eternity. with a desperate display of strength jonesthrew his weight in a backward pull, and hauled kentuck up. then he leaned far back in the saddle, andshoved the colts out beyond the horse's flank.down went the broad head, with its black, glistening horns. bang!she slid forward with a crash, plowing the ground with hoofs and nose--spouted blood,uttered a hoarse cry, kicked and died.
kentuck, for once completely terrorized,reared and plunged from the cow, dragging the calf.stern command and iron arm forced him to a standstill. the calf, nearly strangled, recovered whenthe noose was slipped, and moaned a feeble protest against life and captivity. the remainder of jones's lasso went to bindnumber six, and one of his socks went to serve as reminder to the persistent wolves."six! on! on! kentuck! on!" weakening, but unconscious of it, withbloody hands and feet, without lasso, and with only one charge in his revolver,hatless, coatless, vestless, bootless, the
wild hunter urged on the noble horse. the herd had gained miles in the intervalof the fight. game to the backbone, kentuck lengthenedout to overhaul it, and slowly the rolling gap lessened and lessened. a long hour thumped away, with the rumblegrowing nearer. once again the lagging calves dotted thegrassy plain before the hunter. he dashed beside a burly calf, grasped itstail, stopped his horse, and jumped. the calf went down with him, and did notcome up. the knotted, blood-stained hands, likeclaws of steel, bound the hind legs close
and fast with a leathern belt, and leftbetween them a torn and bloody sock. "seven! on! old faithfull!we must have another! the last! this is your day."the blood that flecked the hunter was not all his own. the sun slanted westwardly toward thepurpling horizon; the grassy plain gleamed like a ruffled sea of glass; the graywolves loped on. when next the hunter came within sight ofthe herd, over a wavy ridge, changes in its shape and movement met his gaze.
the calves were almost done; they could runno more; their mothers faced the south, and trotted slowly to and fro; the bulls weregrunting, herding, piling close. it looked as if the herd meant to stand andfight. this mattered little to the hunter who hadcaptured seven calves since dawn. the first limping calf he reached tried toelude the grasping hand and failed. kentuck had been trained to wheel to theright or left, in whichever way his rider leaned; and as jones bent over and caughtan upraised tail, the horse turned to strike the calf with both front hoofs. the calf rolled; the horse plunged down;the rider sped beyond to the dust.
though the calf was tired, he still couldbellow, and he filled the air with robust bawls. jones all at once saw twenty or morebuffalo dash in at him with fast, twinkling, short legs.with the thought of it, he was in the air to the saddle. as the black, round mounds charged fromevery direction, kentuck let out with all there was left in him.he leaped and whirled, pitched and swerved, in a roaring, clashing, dusty melee. beating hoofs threw the turf, flying tailswhipped the air, and everywhere were dusky,
sharp-pointed heads, tossing low.kentuck squeezed out unscathed. the mob of bison, bristling, turned tolumber after the main herd. jones seized his opportunity and rode afterthem, yelling with all his might. he drove them so hard that soon the littlefellows lagged paces behind. only one or two old cows straggled with thecalves. then wheeling kentuck, he cut between theherd and a calf, and rode it down. bewildered, the tously little bull bellowedin great affright. the hunter seized the stiff tail, andcalling to his horse, leaped off. but his strength was far spent and thebuffalo, larger than his fellows, threshed
about and jerked in terror. jones threw it again and again.but it struggled up, never once ceasing its loud demands for help.finally the hunter tripped it up and fell upon it with his knees. above the rumble of retreating hoofs, jonesheard the familiar short, quick, jarring pound on the turf.kentuck neighed his alarm and raced to the right. bearing down on the hunter, hurtlingthrough the air, was a giant furry mass, instinct with fierce life and power--abuffalo cow robbed of her young.
with his senses almost numb, barely able topull and raise the colt, the plainsman willed to live, and to keep his captive.his leveled arm wavered like a leaf in a storm. bang!fire, smoke, a shock, a jarring crash, and silence!the calf stirred beneath him. he put out a hand to touch a warm, furrycoat. the mother had fallen beside him. lifting a heavy hoof, he laid it over theneck of the calf to serve as additional weight.he lay still and listened.
the rumble of the herd died away in thedistance. the evening waned.still the hunter lay quiet. from time to time the calf struggled andbellowed. lank, gray wolves appeared on all sides;they prowled about with hungry howls, and shoved black-tipped noses through thegrass. the sun sank, and the sky paled to opalblue. a star shone out, then another, andanother. over the prairie slanted the first darkshadow of night. suddenly the hunter laid his ear to theground, and listened.
faint beats, like throbs of a pulsingheart, shuddered from the soft turf. stronger they grew, till the hunter raisedhis head. dark forms approached; voices broke thesilence; the creaking of a wagon scared away the wolves."this way!" shouted the hunter weakly. "ha! here he is. hurt?" cried rude, vaulting the wheel."tie up this calf. how many--did you find?"the voice grew fainter. "seven--alive, and in good shape, and allyour clothes." but the last words fell on unconsciousears.
chapter 4.the trail "frank, what'll we do about horses?" askedjones. "jim'll want the bay, and of course you'llwant to ride spot. the rest of our nags will only do to packthe outfit." "i've been thinkin'," replied the foreman."you sure will need good mounts. now it happens that a friend of mine isjust at this time at house rock valley, an outlyin' post of one of the big utahranches. he is gettin' in the horses off the range,an' he has some crackin' good ones. let's ooze over there--it's only thirtymiles--an' get some horses from him."
we were all eager to act upon frank'ssuggestion. so plans were made for three of us to rideover and select our mounts. frank and jim would follow with the packtrain, and if all went well, on the following evening we would camp under theshadow of buckskin. early next morning we were on our way. i tried to find a soft place on old baldy,one of frank's pack horses. he was a horse that would not have raisedup at the trumpet of doom. nothing under the sun, frank said, botheredold baldy but the operation of shoeing. we made the distance to the outpost bynoon, and found frank's friend a genial and
obliging cowboy, who said we could have allthe horses we wanted. while jones and wallace strutted round thebig corral, which was full of vicious, dusty, shaggy horses and mustangs, i sathigh on the fence. i heard them talking about points and girthand stride, and a lot of terms that i could not understand.wallace selected a heavy sorrel, and jones a big bay; very like jim's. i had observed, way over in the corner ofthe corral, a bunch of cayuses, and among them a clean-limbed black horse. edging round on the fence i got a closerview, and then cried out that i had found
my horse. i jumped down and caught him, much to mysurprise, for the other horses were wild, and had kicked viciously.the black was beautifully built, wide- chested and powerful, but not heavy. his coat glistened like sheeny black satin,and he had a white face and white feet and a long mane."i don't know about giving you satan-- that's his name," said the cowboy. "the foreman rides him often.he's the fastest, the best climber, and the best dispositioned horse on the range.
"but i guess i can let you have him," hecontinued, when he saw my disappointed face."by george!" exclaimed jones. "you've got it on us this time." "would you like to trade?" asked wallace,as his sorrel tried to bite him. "that black looks sort of fierce." i led my prize out of the corral, up to thelittle cabin nearby, where i tied him, and proceeded to get acquainted after a fashionof my own. though not versed in horse-lore, i knewthat half the battle was to win his confidence.
i smoothed his silky coat, and patted him,and then surreptitiously slipped a lump of sugar from my pocket. this sugar, which i had purloined inflagstaff, and carried all the way across the desert, was somewhat disreputablysoiled, and satan sniffed at it disdainfully. evidently he had never smelled or tastedsugar. i pressed it into his mouth.he munched it, and then looked me over with some interest. i handed him another lump.he took it and rubbed his nose against me.
satan was mine!frank and jim came along early in the afternoon. what with packing, changing saddles andshoeing the horses, we were all busy. old baldy would not be shod, so we let himoff till a more opportune time. by four o'clock we were riding toward theslopes of buckskin, now only a few miles away, standing up higher and darker. "what's that for?" inquired wallace,pointing to a long, rusty, wire-wrapped, double-barreled blunderbuss of a shotgun,stuck in the holster of jones's saddle. the colonel, who had been having a finetime with the impatient and curious hounds,
did not vouchsafe any information on thatscore. but very shortly we were destined to learnthe use of this incongruous firearm. i was riding in advance of wallace, and alittle behind jones. the dogs--excepting jude, who had beenkicked and lamed--were ranging along before their master. suddenly, right before me, i saw an immensejack-rabbit; and just then moze and don caught sight of it.in fact, moze bumped his blunt nose into the rabbit. when it leaped into scared action, mozeyelped, and don followed suit.
then they were after it in wild, clamoringpursuit. jones let out the stentorian blast, nowbecoming familiar, and spurred after them. he reached over, pulled the shotgun out ofthe holster and fired both barrels at the jumping dogs. i expressed my amazement in stronglanguage, and wallace whistled. don came sneaking back with his tailbetween his legs, and moze, who had cowered as if stung, circled round ahead of us. jones finally succeeded in gettin him back."come in hyah! you measly rabbit dogs!what do you mean chasing off that way?
we're after lions. lions! understand?"don looked thoroughly convinced of his error, but moze, being more thick-headed,appeared mystified rather than hurt or frightened. "what size shot do you use?"i asked. "number ten.they don't hurt much at seventy five yards," replied our leader. "i use them as sort of a long arm.you see, the dogs must be made to know what we're after.ordinary means would never do in a case
like this. my idea is to break them of coyotes, wolvesand deer, and when we cross a lion trail, let them go.i'll teach them sooner than you'd think. only we must get where we can see whatthey're trailing. then i can tell whether to call then backor not." the sun was gilding the rim of the desertrampart when we began the ascent of the foothills of buckskin. a steep trail wound zigzag up the mountainwe led our horses, as it was a long, hard climb.
from time to time, as i stopped to catch mybreath i gazed away across the growing void to the gorgeous pink cliffs, far above andbeyond the red wall which had seemed so high, and then out toward the desert. the irregular ragged crack in the plain,apparently only a thread of broken ground, was the grand canyon. how unutterably remote, wild, grand wasthat world of red and brown, of purple pall, of vague outline!two thousand feet, probably, we mounted to what frank called little buckskin. in the west a copper glow, ridged withlead-colored clouds, marked where the sun
had set.the air was very thin and icy cold. at the first clump of pinyon pines, we madedry camp. when i sat down it was as if i had beenanchored. frank solicitously remarked that i looked"sort of beat." jim built a roaring fire and began gettingsupper. a snow squall came on the rushing wind. the air grew colder, and though i huggedthe fire, i could not get warm. when i had satisfied my hunger, i rolledout my sleeping-bag and crept into it. i stretched my aching limbs and did notmove again.
once i awoke, drowsily feeling the warmthof the fire, and i heard frank say: "he's asleep, dead to the world!" "he's all in," said jones."riding's what did it you know how a horse tears a man to pieces." "will he be able to stand it?" asked frank,with as much solicitude as if he were my brother."when you get out after anythin'--well, you're hell. an' think of the country we're goin' into.i know you've never seen the breaks of the siwash, but i have, an' it's the worst an'roughest country i ever saw.
breaks after breaks, like the ridges on awashboard, headin' on the south slope of buckskin, an' runnin' down, side by side,miles an' miles, deeper an' deeper, till they run into that awful hole. it will be a killin' trip on men, horsesan' dogs. now, mr. wallace, he's been campin' an'roughin' with the navajos for months; he's in some kind of shape, but--" frank concluded his remark with a doubtfulpause. "i'm some worried, too," replied jones."but he would come. he stood the desert well enough; even themormons said that."
in the ensuing silence the fire sputtered,the glare fitfully merged into dark shadows under the weird pinyons, and the windmoaned through the short branches. "wal," drawled a slow, soft voice, "shore ireckon you're hollerin' too soon. frank's measly trick puttin' him on spotshowed me. he rode out on spot, an' he rode in onspot. shore he'll stay."it was not all the warmth of the blankets that glowed over me then. the voices died away dreamily, and myeyelids dropped sleepily tight. late in the night i sat up suddenly, rousedby some unusual disturbance.
the fire was dead; the wind swept with arush through the pinyons. from the black darkness came the staccatochorus of coyotes. don barked his displeasure; sounder madethe welkin ring, and old moze growled low and deep, grumbling like muttered thunder.then all was quiet, and i slept. dawn, rosy red, confronted me when i openedmy eyes. breakfast was ready; frank was packing oldbaldy; jones talked to his horse as he saddled him; wallace came stooping hisgiant figure under the pinyons; the dogs, eager and soft-eyed, sat around jim andbegged. the sun peeped over the pink cliffs; thedesert still lay asleep, tranced in a
purple and golden-streaked mist. "come, come!" said jones, in his big voice."we're slow; here's the sun." "easy, easy," replied frank, "we've all thetime there is." when frank threw the saddle over satan iinterrupted him and said i would care for my horse henceforward.soon we were under way, the horses fresh, the dogs scenting the keen, cold air. the trail rolled over the ridges of pinyonand scrubby pine. occasionally we could see the black, raggedcrest of buckskin above us. from one of these ridges i took my lastlong look back at the desert, and engraved
on my mind a picture of the red wall, andthe many-hued ocean of sand. the trail, narrow and indistinct, mountedthe last slow-rising slope; the pinyons failed, and the scrubby pines becameabundant. at length we reached the top, and enteredthe great arched aisles of buckskin forest. the ground was flat as a table. magnificent pine trees, far apart, withbranches high and spreading, gave the eye glad welcome. some of these monarchs were eight feetthick at the base and two hundred feet high.here and there one lay, gaunt and
prostrate, a victim of the wind. the smell of pitch pine was sweetlyoverpowering. "when i went through here two weeks ago,the snow was a foot deep, an' i bogged in places," said frank. "the sun has been oozin' round here some.i'm afraid jones won't find any snow on this end of buckskin." thirty miles of winding trail, brown andspringy from its thick mat of pine needles, shaded always by the massive, seamy-barkedtrees, took us over the extremity of buckskin.
then we faced down into the head of aravine that ever grew deeper, stonier and rougher. i shifted from side to side, from leg toleg in my saddle, dismounted and hobbled before satan, mounted again, and rode on.jones called the dogs and complained to them of the lack of snow. wallace sat his horse comfortably, takinglong pulls at his pipe and long gazes at the shaggy sides of the ravine.frank, energetic and tireless, kept the pack-horses in the trail. jim jogged on silently.and so we rode down to oak spring.
the spring was pleasantly situated in agrove of oaks and pinyons, under the shadow of three cliffs. three ravines opened here into an ovalvalley. a rude cabin of rough-hewn logs stood nearthe spring. "get down, get down," sang out frank. "we'll hang up here.beyond oak is no-man's-land. we take our chances on water after we leavehere." when we had unsaddled, unpacked, and got afire roaring on the wide stone hearth of the cabin, it was once again night."boys," said jones after supper, "we're now
on the edge of the lion country. frank saw lion sign in here only two weeksago; and though the snow is gone, we stand a show of finding tracks in the sand anddust. to-morrow morning, before the sun gets achance at the bottom of these ravines, we'll be up and doing.we'll each take a dog and search in different directions. keep the dog in leash, and when he opensup, examine the ground carefully for tracks.if a dog opens on any track that you are sure isn't lion's, punish him.
and when a lion-track is found, hold thedog in, wait and signal. we'll use a signal i have tried and foundfar-reaching and easy to yell. waa-hoo! that's it.once yelled it means come. twice means comes quickly.three times means come--danger!" in one corner of the cabin was a platformof poles, covered with straw. i threw the sleeping-bag on this, and wassoon stretched out. misgivings as to my strength worried mebefore i closed my eyes. once on my back, i felt i could not rise;my chest was sore; my cough deep and
rasping. it seemed i had scarcely closed my eyeswhen jones's impatient voice recalled me from sweet oblivion."frank, frank, it's daylight. jim--boys!" he called. i tumbled out in a gray, wan twilight.it was cold enough to make the fire acceptable, but nothing like the morningbefore on buckskin. "come to the festal board," drawled jim,almost before i had my boots laced. "jones," said frank, "jim an' i'll oozeround here to-day. there's lots to do, an' we want to havethings hitched right before we strike for
the siwash. we've got to shoe old baldy, an' if wecan't get him locoed, it'll take all of us to do it." the light was still gray when jones led offwith don, wallace with sounder and i with moze. jones directed us to separate, follow thedry stream beds in the ravines, and remember his instructions given the nightbefore. the ravine to the right, which i entered,was choked with huge stones fallen from the cliff above, and pinyons growing thick; andi wondered apprehensively how a man could
evade a wild animal in such a place, muchless chase it. old moze pulled on his chain and sniffed atcoyote and deer tracks. and every time he evinced interest in such,i cut him with a switch, which, to tell the truth, he did not notice.i thought i heard a shout, and holding moze tight, i waited and listened. "waa-hoo--waa-hoo!" floated on the air,rather deadened as if it had come from round the triangular cliff that faced intothe valley. urging and dragging moze, i ran down theravine as fast as i could, and soon encountered wallace coming from the middleravine.
"jones," he said excitedly, "this way--there's the signal again." we dashed in haste for the mouth of thethird ravine, and came suddenly upon jones, kneeling under a pinyon tree. "boys, look!" he exclaimed, as he pointedto the ground. there, clearly defined in the dust, was acat track as big as my spread hand, and the mere sight of it sent a chill up my spine. "there's a lion track for you; made by afemale, a two-year-old; but can't say if she passed here last night.don won't take the trail. try moze."
i led moze to the big, round imprint, andput his nose down into it. the old hound sniffed and sniffed, thenlost interest. "cold!" ejaculated jones. "no go.try sounder. come, old boy, you've the nose for it."he urged the reluctant hound forward. sounder needed not to be shown the trail;he stuck his nose in it, and stood very quiet for a long moment; then he quiveredslightly, raised his nose and sought the next track. step by step he went slowly, doubtfully.all at once his tail wagged stiffly.
"look at that!" cried jones in delight."he's caught a scent when the others couldn't. hyah, moze, get back.keep moze and don back; give him room." slowly sounder paced up the ravine, ascarefully as if he were traveling on thin ice. he passed the dusty, open trail to a scalyground with little bits of grass, and he kept on.we were electrified to hear him give vent to a deep bugle-blast note of eagerness. "by george, he's got it, boys!" exclaimedjones, as he lifted the stubborn,
struggling hound off the trail."i know that bay. it means a lion passed here this morning. and we'll get him up as sure as you'realive. come, sounder.now for the horses." as we ran pell-mell into the little glade,where jim sat mending some saddle trapping, frank rode up the trail with the horses."well, i heard sounder," he said with his genial smile. "somethin's comin' off, eh?you'll have to ooze round some to keep up with that hound."
i saddled satan with fingers that trembledin excitement, and pushed my little remington automatic into the rifle holster."boys, listen," said our leader. "we're off now in the beginning of a huntnew to you. remember no shooting, no blood-letting,except in self-defense. keep as close to me as you can. listen for the dogs, and when you fallbehind or separate, yell out the signal cry.don't forget this. we're bound to lose each other. look out for the spikes and branches on thetrees.
if the dogs split, whoever follows the onethat trees the lion must wait there till the rest come up. off now!come, sounder; moze, you rascal, hyah! come, don, come, puppy, and take yourmedicine." except moze, the hounds were all tremblingand running eagerly to and fro. when sounder was loosed, he led them in abee-line to the trail, with us cantering after. sounder worked exactly as before, only hefollowed the lion tracks a little farther up the ravine before he bayed.
he kept going faster and faster,occasionally letting out one deep, short yelp.the other hounds did not give tongue, but eager, excited, baffled, kept at his heels. the ravine was long, and the wash at thebottom, up which the lion had proceeded, turned and twisted round boulders large ashouses, and led through dense growths of some short, rough shrub. now and then the lion tracks showed plainlyin the sand. for five miles or more sounder led us upthe ravine, which began to contract and grow steep.
the dry stream bed got to be full ofthickets of branchless saplings, about the poplar--tall, straight, size of a man'sarm, and growing so close we had to press them aside to let our horses through. presently sounder slowed up and appeared atfault. we found him puzzling over an open, grassypatch, and after nosing it for a little while, he began skirting the edge. "cute dog!" declared jones."that sounder will make a lion chaser. our game has gone up here somewhere."sure enough, sounder directly gave tongue from the side of the ravine.
it was climb for us now.broken shale, rocks of all dimensions, pinyons down and pinyons up made ascendingno easy problem. we had to dismount and lead the horses,thus losing ground. jones forged ahead and reached the top ofthe ravine first. when wallace and i got up, breathingheavily, jones and the hounds were out of sight.but sounder kept voicing his clear call, giving us our direction. off we flew, over ground that was stillrough, but enjoyable going compared to the ravine slopes.
the ridge was sparsely covered with cedarand pinyon, through which, far ahead, we pretty soon spied jones.wallace signaled, and our leader answered twice. we caught up with him on the brink ofanother ravine deeper and craggier than the first, full of dead, gnarled pinyon andsplintered rocks. "this gulch is the largest of the threethat head in at oak spring," said jones. "boys, don't forget your direction.always keep a feeling where camp is, always sense it every time you turn. the dogs have gone down.that lion is in here somewhere.
maybe he lives down in the high cliffs nearthe spring and came up here last night for a kill he's buried somewhere. lions never travel far.hark! hark!there's sounder and the rest of them! they've got the scent; they've all got it! down, boys, down, and ride!"with that he crashed into the cedar in a way that showed me how impervious he was toslashing branches, sharp as thorns, and steep descent and peril. wallace's big sorrel plunged after him andthe rolling stones cracked.
suffering as i was by this time, with crampin my legs, and torturing pain, i had to choose between holding my horse in orfalling off; so i chose the former and accordingly got behind. dead cedar and pinyon trees lay everywhere,with their contorted limbs reaching out like the arms of a devil-fish.stones blocked every opening. making the bottom of the ravine after whatseemed an interminable time, i found the tracks of jones and wallace. a long "waa-hoo!" drew me on; then themellow bay of a hound floated up the ravine.
satan made up time in the sandy stream bed,but kept me busily dodging overhanging branches. i became aware, after a succession ofefforts to keep from being strung on pinyons, that the sand before me was cleanand trackless. hauling satan up sharply, i waitedirresolutely and listened. then from high up the ravine side wafteddown a medley of yelps and barks. "waa-hoo, waa-hoo!" ringing down the slope,pealed against the cliff behind me, and sent the wild echoes flying.satan, of his own accord, headed up the incline.
surprised at this, i gave him free rein.how he did climb! not long did it take me to discover that hepicked out easier going than i had. once i saw jones crossing a ledge far aboveme, and i yelled our signal cry. the answer returned clear and sharp; thenits echo cracked under the hollow cliff, and crossing and recrossing the ravine, itdied at last far away, like the muffled peal of a bell-buoy. again i heard the blended yelping of thehounds, and closer at hand. i saw a long, low cliff above, and decidedthat the hounds were running at the base of it.
another chorus of yelps, quicker, wilderthan the others, drew a yell from me. instinctively i knew the dogs had jumpedgame of some kind. satan knew it as well as i, for hequickened his pace and sent the stones clattering behind him. i gained the base of the yellow cliff, butfound no tracks in the dust of ages that had crumbled in its shadow, nor did i hearthe dogs. considering how close they had seemed, thiswas strange. i halted and listened.silence reigned supreme. the ragged cracks in the cliff walls couldhave harbored many a watching lion, and i
cast an apprehensive glance into their darkconfines. then i turned my horse to get round thecliff and over the ridge. when i again stopped, all i could hear wasthe thumping of my heart and the labored panting of satan. i came to a break in the cliff, a steepplace of weathered rock, and i put satan to it.he went up with a will. from the narrow saddle of the ridge-crest itried to take my bearings. below me slanted the green of pinyon, withthe bleached treetops standing like spears, and uprising yellow stones.
fancying i heard a gunshot, i leaned astraining ear against the soft breeze. the proof came presently in theunmistakable report of jones's blunderbuss. it was repeated almost instantly, givingreality to the direction, which was down the slope of what i concluded must be thethird ravine. wondering what was the meaning of theshots, and chagrined because i was out of the race, but calmer in mind, i let satanstand. hardly a moment elapsed before a sharp barktingled in my ears. it belonged to old moze. soon i distinguished a rattling of stonesand the sharp, metallic clicks of hoofs
striking rocks. then into a space below me loped abeautiful deer, so large that at first i took it for an elk.another sharp bark, nearer this time, told the tale of moze's dereliction. in a few moments he came in sight, runningwith his tongue out and his head high. "hyah, you old gladiator! hyah! hyah!"i yelled and yelled again. moze passed over the saddle on the trail ofthe deer, and his short bark floated back to remind me how far he was from a liondog. then i divined the meaning of the shotgunreports.
the hounds had crossed a fresher trail thanthat of the lion, and our leader had discovered it. despite a keen appreciation of jones'stask, i gave way to amusement, and repeated wallace's paradoxical formula: "pet thelions and shoot the hounds." so i headed down the ravine, looking for ablunt, bold crag, which i had descried from camp. i found it before long, and profiting bypast failures to judge of distance, gave my first impression a great stretch, and thendecided that i was more than two miles from oak.
long after two miles had been covered, andi had begun to associate jim's biscuits with a certain soft seat near a ruddy fire,i was apparently still the same distance from my landmark crag. suddenly a slight noise brought me to ahalt. i listened intently.only an indistinct rattling of small rocks disturbed the impressive stillness. it might have been the weathering that goeson constantly, and it might have been an animal.i inclined to the former idea till i saw satan's ears go up.
jones had told me to watch the ears of myhorse, and short as had been my acquaintance with satan, i had learned thathe always discovered things more quickly than i. so i waited patiently.from time to time a rattling roll of pebbles, almost musical, caught my ear. it came from the base of the wall of yellowcliff that barred the summit of all those ridges.satan threw up his head and nosed the breeze. the delicate, almost stealthy sounds, theaction of my horse, the waiting drove my
heart to extra work. the breeze quickened and fanned my cheek,and borne upon it came the faint and far- away bay of a hound.it came again and again, each time nearer. then on a stronger puff of wind rang theclear, deep, mellow call that had given sounder his beautiful name.never it seemed had i heard music so blood- stirring. sounder was on the trail of something, andhe had it headed my way. satan heard, shot up his long ears, andtried to go ahead; but i restrained and soothed him into quiet.
long moments i sat there, with the poignantconsciousness of the wildness of the scene, of the significant rattling of the stonesand of the bell-tongued hound baying incessantly, sending warm joy through my veins, the absorption in sensations new,yielding only to the hunting instinct when satan snorted and quivered.again the deep-toned bay rang into the silence with its stirring thrill of life. and a sharp rattling of stones just abovebrought another snort from satan. across an open space in the pinyons a grayform flashed. i leaped off satan and knelt to get abetter view under the trees.
i soon made out another deer passing alongthe base of the cliff. mounting again, i rode up to the cliff towait for sounder. a long time i had to wait for the hound.it proved that the atmosphere was as deceiving in regard to sound as to sight. finally sounder came running along thewall. i got off to intercept him. the crazy fellow--he had never responded tomy overtures of friendship--uttered short, sharp yelps of delight, and actually leapedinto my arms. but i could not hold him.
he darted upon the trail again and paid noheed to my angry shouts. with a resolve to overhaul him, i jumped onsatan and whirled after the hound. the black stretched out with such a stridethat i was at pains to keep my seat. i dodged the jutting rocks and projectingsnags; felt stinging branches in my face and the rush of sweet, dry wind. under the crumbling walls, over slopes ofweathered stone and droppings of shelving rock, round protruding noses of cliff, overand under pinyons satan thundered. he came out on the top of the ridge, at thenarrow back i had called a saddle. here i caught a glimpse of sounder farbelow, going down into the ravine from
which i had ascended some time before. i called to him, but i might as well havecalled to the wind. weary to the point of exhaustion, i oncemore turned satan toward camp. i lay forward on his neck and let him havehis will. far down the ravine i awoke to strangesounds, and soon recognized the cracking of iron-shod hoofs against stone; then voices. turning an abrupt bend in the sandy wash,i ran into jones and wallace. "fall in!line up in the sad procession!" said jones. "tige and the pup are faithful.
the rest of the dogs are somewhere betweenthe grand canyon and the utah desert." i related my adventures, and tried to sparemoze and sounder as much as conscience would permit. "hard luck!" commented jones. "just as the hounds jumped the cougar--oh!they bounced him out of the rocks all right--don't you remember, just under thatcliff wall where you and wallace came up to me? well, just as they jumped him, they ranright into fresh deer tracks. i saw one of the deer.now that's too much for any hounds, except
those trained for lions. i shot at moze twice, but couldn't turnhim. he has to be hurt, they've all got to behurt to make them understand." wallace told of a wild ride somewhere injones's wake, and of sundry knocks and bruises he had sustained, of pieces ofcorduroy he had left decorating the cedars and of a most humiliating event, where a gaunt and bare pinyon snag had penetratedunder his belt and lifted him, mad and kicking, off his horse. "these western nags will hang you on a lineevery chance they get," declared jones,
"and don't you overlook that.well, there's the cabin. we'd better stay here a few days or a weekand break in the dogs and horses, for this day's work was apple pie to what we'll getin the siwash." i groaned inwardly, and was remorselesslyglad to see wallace fall off his horse and walk on one leg to the cabin. when i got my saddle off satan, had givenhim a drink and hobbled him, i crept into the cabin and dropped like a log.i felt as if every bone in my body was broken and my flesh was raw. i got gleeful gratification from wallace'scomplaints, and jones's remark that he had
a stitch in his back.so ended the first chase after cougars. chapter 5.oak spring moze and don and sounder straggled intocamp next morning, hungry, footsore and scarred; and as they limped in, jones metthem with characteristic speech: "well, you decided to come in when you got hungry andtired? never thought of how you fooled me, didyou? now, the first thing you get is a goodlicking." he tied them in a little log pen near thecabin and whipped them soundly. and the next few days, while wallace and irested, he took them out separately and
deliberately ran them over coyote and deertrails. sometimes we heard his stentorian yell as aforerunner to the blast from his old shotgun.then again we heard the shots unheralded by the yell. wallace and i waxed warm under the collarover this peculiar method of training dogs, and each of us made dire threats. but in justice to their implacable trainer,the dogs never appeared to be hurt; never a spot of blood flecked their glossy coats,nor did they ever come home limping. sounder grew wise, and don gave up, butmoze appeared not to change.
"all hands ready to rustle," sang out frankone morning. "old baldy's got to be shod." this brought us all, except jones, out ofthe cabin, to see the object of frank's anxiety tied to a nearby oak.at first i failed to recognize old baldy. vanished was the slow, sleepy, apatheticmanner that had characterized him; his ears lay back on his head; fire flashed from hiseyes. when frank threw down a kit-bag, whichemitted a metallic clanking, old baldy sat back on his haunches, planted his forefeetdeep in the ground and plainly as a horse could speak, said "no!"
"sometimes he's bad, and sometimes worse,"growled frank. "shore he's plumb bad this mornin',"replied jim. frank got the three of us to hold baldy'shead and pull him up, then he ventured to lift a hind foot over his line.old baldy straightened out his leg and sent frank sprawling into the dirt. twice again frank patiently tried to hold ahind leg, with the same result; and then he lifted a forefoot. baldy uttered a very intelligible snort,bit through wallace's glove, yanked jim off his feet, and scared me so that i let gohis forelock.
then he broke the rope which held him tothe tree. there was a plunge, a scattering of men,though jim still valiantly held on to baldy's head, and a thrashing of scrubpinyon, where baldy reached out vigorously with his hind feet. but for jim, he would have escaped."what's all the row?" called jones from the cabin.then from the door, taking in the situation, he yelled: "hold on, jim! pull down on the ornery old cayuse!"he leaped into action with a lasso in each hand, one whirling round his head.
the slender rope straightened with a whizand whipped round baldy's legs as he kicked viciously.jones pulled it tight, then fastened it with nimble fingers to the tree. "let go! let go!jim!" he yelled, whirling the other lasso. the loop flashed and fell over baldy's headand tightened round his neck. jones threw all the weight of his burlyform on the lariat, and baldy crashed to the ground, rolled, tussled, screamed, andthen lay on his back, kicking the air with three free legs. "hold this," ordered jones, giving thetight rope to frank.
whereupon he grabbed my lasso from thesaddle, roped baldy's two forefeet, and pulled him down on his side. this lasso he fastened to a scrub cedar."he's chokin'!" said frank. "likely he is," replied jones shortly."it'll do him good." but with his big hands he drew the coilloose and slipped it down over baldy's nose, where he tightened it again."now, go ahead," he said, taking the rope from frank. it had all been done in a twinkling.baldy lay there groaning and helpless, and when frank once again took hold of thewicked leg, he was almost passive.
when the shoeing operation had been neatlyand quickly attended to and baldy released from his uncomfortable position hestruggled to his feet with heavy breaths, shook himself, and looked at his master. "how'd you like being hog-tied?" queriedhis conqueror, rubbing baldy's nose. "now, after this you'll have some manners." old baldy seemed to understand, for helooked sheepish, and lapsed once more into his listless, lazy unconcern."where's jim's old cayuse, the pack-horse?" asked our leader. "lost.couldn't find him this morning, an' had a
deuce of a time findin' the rest of thebunch. old baldy was cute. he hid in a bunch of pinyons an' stoodquiet so his bell wouldn't ring. i had to trail him.""do the horses stray far when they are hobbled?" inquired wallace. "if they keep jumpin' all night they cancover some territory. we're now on the edge of the wild horsecountry, and our nags know this as well as we. they smell the mustangs, an' would breaktheir necks to get away.
satan and the sorrel were ten miles fromcamp when i found them this mornin'. an' jim's cayuse went farther, an' we neverwill get him. he'll wear his hobbles out, then away withthe wild horses. once with them, he'll never be caughtagain." on the sixth day of our stay at oak we hadvisitors, whom frank introduced as the stewart brothers and lawson, wild-horsewranglers. they were still, dark men, whose facialexpression seldom varied; tall and lithe and wiry as the mustangs they rode. the stewarts were on their way to kanab,utah, to arrange for the sale of a drove of
horses they had captured and corraled in anarrow canyon back in the siwash. lawson said he was at our service, and waspromptly hired to look after our horses. "any cougar signs back in the breaks?"asked jones. "wal, there's a cougar on every deertrail," replied the elder stewart, "an' two for every pinto in the breaks.old tom himself downed fifteen colts fer us this spring." "fifteen colts!that's wholesale murder. why don't you kill the butcher?""we've tried more'n onct. it's a turrible busted up country, thembrakes.
no man knows it, an' the cougars do. old tom ranges all the ridges and brakes,even up on the slopes of buckskin; but he lives down there in them holes, an' lordknows, no dog i ever seen could follow him. we tracked him in the snow, an' had dogsafter him, but none could stay with him, except two as never cum back. but we've nothin' agin old tom like jeffclarke, a hoss rustler, who has a string of pintos corraled north of us.clarke swears he ain't raised a colt in two years." "we'll put that old cougar up a tree,"exclaimed jones.
"if you kill him we'll make you all apresent of a mustang, an' clarke, he'll give you two each," replied stewart. "we'd be gettin' rid of him cheap.""how many wild horses on the mountain now?" "hard to tell.two or three thousand, mebbe. there's almost no ketchin' them, an' theyregrowin' all the time we ain't had no luck this spring.the bunch in corral we got last year." "seen anythin' of the white mustang?"inquired frank. "ever get a rope near him?""no nearer'n we hev fer six years back. he can't be ketched.
we seen him an' his band of blacks a fewdays ago, headin' fer a water-hole down where nail canyon runs into kanab canyon.he's so cunnin' he'll never water at any of our trap corrals. an' we believe he can go without water fertwo weeks, unless mebbe he hes a secret hole we've never trailed him to.""would we have any chance to see this white mustang and his band?" questioned jones. "see him?why, thet'd be easy. go down snake gulch, camp at singin'cliffs, go over into nail canyon, an' wait. then send some one slippin' down to thewater-hole at kanab canyon, an' when the
band cums in to drink--which i reckon willbe in a few days now--hev them drive the mustangs up. only be sure to hev them get ahead of thewhite mustang, so he'll hev only one way to cum, fer he sure is knowin'.he never makes a mistake. mebbe you'll get to see him cum by like awhite streak. why, i've heerd thet mustang's hoofs ringlike bells on the rocks a mile away. his hoofs are harder'n any iron shoe as wasever made. but even if you don't get to see him, snakegulch is worth seein'." i learned later from stewart that the whitemustang was a beautiful stallion of the
wildest strain of mustang blue blood. he had roamed the long reaches between thegrand canyon and buckskin toward its southern slope for years; he had been themost sought-for horse by all the wranglers, and had become so shy and experienced that nothing but a glimpse was ever obtained ofhim. a singular fact was that he never attachedany of his own species to his band, unless they were coal black. he had been known to fight and kill otherstallions, but he kept out of the well- wooded and watered country frequented byother bands, and ranged the brakes of the
siwash as far as he could range. the usual method, indeed the onlysuccessful way to capture wild horses, was to build corrals round the waterholes.the wranglers lay out night after night watching. when the mustangs came to drink--which wasalways after dark--the gates would be closed on them. but the trick had never even been tried onthe white mustang, for the simple reason that he never approached one of thesetraps. "boys," said jones, "seeing we needbreaking in, we'll give the white mustang a
little run."this was most pleasurable news, for the wild horses fascinated me. besides, i saw from the expression on ourleader's face that an uncapturable mustang was an object of interest for him. wallace and i had employed the last fewwarm sunny afternoons in riding up and down the valley, below oak, where there was afine, level stretch. here i wore out my soreness of muscle, andgradually overcame my awkwardness in the saddle. frank's remedy of maple sugar and redpepper had rid me of my cold, and with the
return of strength, and the coming ofconfidence, full, joyous appreciation of wild environment and life made meunspeakably happy. and i noticed that my companions were inlike condition of mind, though self- contained where i was exuberant. wallace galloped his sorrel and watched thecrags; jones talked more kindly to the dogs; jim baked biscuits indefatigably, andsmoked in contented silence; frank said always: "we'll ooze along easy like, forwe've all the time there is." which sentiment, whether from reiteratedsuggestion, or increasing confidence in the practical cowboy, or charm of its freeimport, gradually won us all.
"boys," said jones, as we sat round thecampfire, "i see you're getting in shape. well, i've worn off the wire edge myself.and i have the hounds coming fine. they mind me now, but they're mystified. for the life of them they can't understandwhat i mean. i don't blame them.wait till, by good luck, we get a cougar in a tree. when sounder and don see that, we've liondogs, boys! we've lion dogs! but moze is a stubborn brute. in all my years of animal experience, i'venever discovered any other way to make
animals obey than by instilling fear andrespect into their hearts. i've been fond of buffalo, horses and dogs,but sentiment never ruled me. when animals must obey, they must--that'sall, and no mawkishness! but i never trusted a buffalo in my life. if i had i wouldn't be here to-night.you all know how many keepers of tame wild animals get killed.i could tell you dozens of tragedies. and i've often thought, since i got backfrom new york, of that woman i saw with her troop of african lions.i dream about those lions, and see them leaping over her head.
what a grand sight that was!but the public is fooled. i read somewhere that she trained thoselions by love. i don't believe it. i saw her use a whip and a steel spear.moreover, i saw many things that escaped most observers--how she entered the cage,how she maneuvered among them, how she kept a compelling gaze on them! it was an admirable, a great piece of work.maybe she loves those huge yellow brutes, but her life was in danger every momentwhile she was in that cage, and she knew some day, one of her pets likely the kingof beasts she pets the most will rise up
and kill her.that is as certain as death."
