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Old Tom








From: The Last Of The Plainsmen

At daybreak our leader routed us out. The frost mantled the ground so
heavily that it looked like snow, and the rare atmosphere bit like the
breath of winter. The forest stood solemn and gray; the canyon lay
wrapped in vapory slumber.

Hot biscuits and coffee, with a chop or two of the delicious Persian
lamb meat, put a less Spartan tinge on the morning, and gave Wallace
and me more strength--we needed not incentive to leave the fire, hustle
our saddles on the horses and get in line with our impatient leader.
The hounds scampered over the frost, shoving their noses at the tufts
of grass and bluebells. Lawson and Jim remained in camp; the rest of us
trooped southwest.

A mile or so in that direction, the forest of pine ended abruptly, and
a wide belt of low, scrubby old trees, breast high to a horse, fringed
the rim of the canyon and appeared to broaden out and grow wavy
southward. The edge of the forest was as dark and regular as if a band
of woodchoppers had trimmed it. We threaded our way through this
thicket, all peering into the bisecting deer trails for cougar tracks
in the dust.

"Bring the dogs! Hurry!" suddenly called Jones from a thicket.

We lost no time complying, and found him standing in a trail, with his
eyes on the sand. "Take a look, boys. A good-sized male cougar passed
here last night. Hyar, Sounder, Don, Moze, come on!"

It was a nervous, excited pack of hounds. Old Jude got to Jones first,
and she sang out; then Sounder opened with his ringing bay, and before
Jones could mount, a string of yelping dogs sailed straight for the
forest.

"Ooze along, boys!" yelled Frank, wheeling Spot.

With the cowboy leading, we strung into the pines, and I found myself
behind. Presently even Wallace disappeared. I almost threw the reins at
Satan, and yelled for him to go. The result enlightened me. Like an
arrow from a bow, the black shot forward. Frank had told me of his
speed, that when he found his stride it was like riding a flying
feather to be on him. Jones, fearing he would kill me, had cautioned me
always to hold him in, which I had done. Satan stretched out with long
graceful motions; he did not turn aside for logs, but cleared them with
easy and powerful spring, and he swerved only slightly to the trees.
This latter, I saw at once, made the danger for me. It became a matter
of saving my legs and dodging branches. The imperative need of this
came to me with convincing force. I dodged a branch on one tree, only
to be caught square in the middle by a snag on another. Crack! If the
snag had not broken, Satan would have gone on riderless, and I would
have been left hanging, a pathetic and drooping monition to the risks
of the hunt. I kept ducking my head, now and then falling flat over the
pommel to avoid a limb that would have brushed me off, and hugging the
flanks of my horse with my knees. Soon I was at Wallace's heels, and
had Jones in sight. Now and then glimpses of Frank's white horse
gleamed through the trees.

We began to circle toward the south, to go up and down shallow hollows,
to find the pines thinning out; then we shot out of the forest into the
scrubby oak. Riding through this brush was the cruelest kind of work,
but Satan kept on close to the sorrel. The hollows began to get deeper,
and the ridges between them narrower. No longer could we keep a
straight course.

On the crest of one of the ridges we found Jones awaiting us. Jude,
Tige and Don lay panting at his feet. Plainly the Colonel appeared
vexed.

"Listen," he said, when we reined in.

We complied, but did not hear a sound.

"Frank's beyond there some place," continued Jones, "but I can't see
him, nor hear the hounds anymore. Don and Tige split again on deer
trails. Old Jude hung on the lion track, but I stopped her here.
There's something I can't figure. Moze held a beeline southwest, and he
yelled seldom. Sounder gradually stopped baying. Maybe Frank can tell
us something."

Jones's long drawn-out signal was answered from the direction he
expected, and after a little time, Frank's white horse shone out of the
gray-green of a ledge a mile away.

This drew my attention to our position. We were on a high ridge out in
the open, and I could see fifty miles of the shaggy slopes of Buckskin.
Southward the gray, ragged line seemed to stop suddenly, and beyond it
purple haze hung over a void I knew to be the canyon. And facing west,
I came, at last, to understand perfectly the meaning of the breaks in
the Siwash. They were nothing more than ravines that headed up on the
slopes and ran down, getting steeper and steeper, though scarcely
wider, to break into the canyon. Knife-crested ridges rolled westward,
wave on wave, like the billows of a sea. I appreciated that these
breaks were, at their sources, little washes easy to jump across, and
at their mouths a mile deep and impassable. Huge pine trees shaded
these gullies, to give way to the gray growth of stunted oak, which in
turn merged into the dark green of pinyon. A wonderful country for deer
and lions, it seemed to me, but impassable, all but impossible for a
hunter.

Frank soon appeared, brushing through the bending oaks, and Sounder
trotted along behind him.

"Where's Moze?" inquired Jones.

"The last I heard of Moze he was out of the brush, goin' across the
pinyon flat, right for the canyon. He had a hot trail."

"Well, we're certain of one thing; if it was a deer, he won't come back
soon, and if it was a lion, he'll tree it, lose the scent, and come
back. We've got to show the hounds a lion in a tree. They'd run a hot
trail, bump into a tree, and then be at fault. What was wrong with
Sounder?"

"I don't know. He came back to me."

"We can't trust him, or any of them yet. Still, maybe they're doing
better than we know."

The outcome of the chase, so favorably started was a disappointment,
which we all felt keenly. After some discussion, we turned south,
intending to ride down to the rim wall and follow it back to camp. I
happened to turn once, perhaps to look again at the far-distant pink
cliffs of Utah, or the wave-like dome of Trumbull Mountain, when I saw
Moze trailing close behind me. My yell halted the Colonel.

"Well, I'll be darned!" ejaculated he, as Moze hove in sight. "Come
hyar, you rascal!"

He was a tired dog, but had no sheepish air about him, such as he had
worn when lagging in from deer chases. He wagged his tail, and flopped
down to pant and pant, as if to say: "What's wrong with you guys?"

"Boys, for two cents I'd go back and put Jude on that trail. It's just
possible that Moze treed a lion. But--well, I expect there's more
likelihood of his chasing the lion over the rim; so we may as well keep
on. The strange thing is that Sounder wasn't with Moze. There may have
been two lions. You see we are up a tree ourselves. I have known lions
to run in pairs, and also a mother keep four two-year-olds with her.
But such cases are rare. Here, in this country, though, maybe they run
round and have parties."

As we left the breaks behind we got out upon a level pinyon flat. A few
cedars grew with the pinyons. Deer runways and trails were thick.

"Boys, look at that," said Jones. "This is great lion country, the best
I ever saw."

He pointed to the sunken, red, shapeless remain of two horses, and near
them a ghastly scattering of bleached bones. "A lion-lair right here on
the flat. Those two horses were killed early this spring, and I see no
signs of their carcasses having been covered with brush and dirt. I've
got to learn lion lore over again, that's certain."

As we paused at the head of a depression, which appeared to be a gap in
the rim wall, filled with massed pinyons and splintered piles of yellow
stone, caught Sounder going through some interesting moves. He stopped
to smell a bush. Then he lifted his head, and electrified me with a
great, deep sounding bay.

"Hi! there, listen to that!" yelled Jones "What's Sounder got? Give him
room--don't run him down. Easy now, old dog, easy, easy!"

Sounder suddenly broke down a trail. Moze howled, Don barked, and Tige
let out his staccato yelp. They ran through the brush here, there,
every where. Then all at once old Jude chimed in with her mellow voice,
and Jones tumbled off his horse.

"By the Lord Harry! There's something here."

"Here, Colonel, here's the bush Sounder smelt and there's a sandy trail
under it," I called.

"There go Don an' Tige down into the break!" cried Frank. "They've got
a hot scent!"

Jones stooped over the place I designated, to jerk up with reddening
face, and as he flung himself into the saddle roared out: "After
Sounder! Old Tom! Old Tom! Old Tom!"

We all heard Sounder, and at the moment of Jones's discovery, Moze got
the scent and plunged ahead of us.

"Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!" yelled the Colonel. Frank sent Spot forward like a
white streak. Sounder called to us in irresistible bays, which Moze
answered, and then crippled Jude bayed in baffled impotent distress.

The atmosphere was charged with that lion. As if by magic, the
excitation communicated itself to all, and men, horses and dogs acted
in accord. The ride through the forest had been a jaunt. This was a
steeplechase, a mad, heedless, perilous, glorious race. And we had for
a pacemaker a cowboy mounted on a tireless mustang.

Always it seemed to me, while the wind rushed, the brush whipped, I saw
Frank far ahead, sitting his saddle as if glued there, holding his
reins loosely forward. To see him ride so was a beautiful sight. Jones
let out his Comanche yell at every dozen jumps and Wallace sent back a
thrilling "Waa-hoo-o!" In the excitement I had again checked my horse,
and when Jones remembered, and loosed the bridle, how the noble animal
responded! The pace he settled into dazed me; I could hardly
distinguish the deer trail down which he was thundering. I lost my
comrades ahead; the pinyons blurred in my sight; I only faintly heard
the hounds. It occurred to me we were making for the breaks, but I did
not think of checking Satan. I thought only of flying on faster and
faster.

"On! On! old fellow! Stretch out! Never lose this race! We've got to be
there at the finish!" I called to Satan, and he seemed to understand
and stretched lower, farther, quicker.

The brush pounded my legs and clutched and tore my clothes; the wind
whistled; the pinyon branches cut and whipped my face. Once I dodged to
the left, as Satan swerved to the right, with the result that I flew
out of the saddle, and crashed into a pinyon tree, which marvelously
brushed me back into the saddle. The wild yells and deep bays sounded
nearer. Satan tripped and plunged down, throwing me as gracefully as an
aerial tumbler wings his flight. I alighted in a bush, without feeling
of scratch or pain. As Satan recovered and ran past, I did not seek to
make him stop, but getting a good grip on the pommel, I vaulted up
again. Once more he raced like a wild mustang. And from nearer and
nearer in front pealed the alluring sounds of the chase.

Satan was creeping close to Wallace and Jones, with Frank looming white
through the occasional pinyons. Then all dropped out of sight, to
appear again suddenly. They had reached the first break. Soon I was
upon it. Two deer ran out of the ravine, almost brushing my horse in
the haste. Satan went down and up in a few giant strides. Only the
narrow ridge separated us from another break. It was up and down then
for Satan, a work to which he manfully set himself. Occasionally I saw
Wallace and Jones, but heard them oftener. All the time the breaks grew
deeper, till finally Satan had to zigzag his way down and up.
Discouragement fastened on me, when from the summit of the next ridge I
saw Frank far down the break, with Jones and Wallace not a quarter of a
mile away from him. I sent out a long, exultant yell as Satan crashed
into the hard, dry wash in the bottom of the break.

I knew from the way he quickened under me that he intended to overhaul
somebody. Perhaps because of the clear going, or because my frenzy had
cooled to a thrilling excitement which permitted detail, I saw clearly
and distinctly the speeding horsemen down the ravine. I picked out the
smooth pieces of ground ahead, and with the slightest touch of the rein
on his neck, guided Satan into them. How he ran! The light, quick beats
of his hoofs were regular, pounding. Seeing Jones and Wallace sail high
into the air, I knew they had jumped a ditch. Thus prepared, I managed
to stick on when it yawned before me; and Satan, never slackening,
leaped up and up, giving me a new swing.

Dust began to settle in little clouds before me; Frank, far ahead, had
turned his mustang up the side of the break; Wallace, within hailing
distance, now turned to wave me a hand. The rushing wind fairly sang in
my ears; the walls of the break were confused blurs of yellow and
green; at every stride Satan seemed to swallow a rod of the white trail.

Jones began to scale the ravine, heading up obliquely far on the side
of where Frank had vanished, and as Wallace followed suit, I turned
Satan. I caught Wallace at the summit, and we raced together out upon
another flat of pinyon. We heard Frank and Jones yelling in a way that
caused us to spur our horses frantically. Spot, gleaming white near a
clump of green pinyons, was our guiding star. That last quarter of a
mile was a ringing run, a ride to remember.

As our mounts crashed back with stiff forelegs and haunches, Wallace
and I leaped off and darted into the clump of pinyons, whence issued a
hair-raising medley of yells and barks. I saw Jones, then Frank, both
waving their arms, then Moze and Sounder running wildly, airlessly
about.

"Look there!" rang in my ear, and Jones smashed me on the back with a
blow, which at any ordinary time would have laid me flat.

In a low, stubby pinyon tree, scarce twenty feet from us, was a tawny
form. An enormous mountain lion, as large as an African lioness, stood
planted with huge, round legs on two branches; and he faced us
gloomily, neither frightened nor fierce. He watched the running dogs
with pale, yellow eyes, waved his massive head and switched a long,
black tufted tail.

"It's Old Tom! sure as you're born! It's Old Tom!" yelled Jones.
"There's no two lions like that in one country. Hold still now. Jude is
here, and she'll see him, she'll show him to the other hounds. Hold
still!"

We heard Jude coming at a fast pace for a lame dog, and we saw her
presently, running with her nose down for a moment, then up. She
entered the clump of trees, and bumped her nose against the pinyon Old
Tom was in, and looked up like a dog that knew her business. The series
of wild howls she broke into quickly brought Sounder and Moze to her
side. They, too, saw the big lion, not fifteen feet over their heads.

We were all yelling and trying to talk at once, in some such state as
the dogs.

"Hyar, Moze! Come down out of that!" hoarsely shouted Jones.

Moze had begun to climb the thick, many-branched, low pinyon tree. He
paid not the slightest attention to Jones, who screamed and raged at
him.

"Cover the lion!" cried he to me. "Don't shoot unless he crouches to
jump on me."

The little beaded front-sight wavered slightly as I held my rifle
leveled at the grim, snarling face, and out of the corner of my eye, as
it were, I saw Jones dash in under the lion and grasp Moze by the hind
leg and haul him down. He broke from Jones and leaped again to the
first low branch. His master then grasped his collar and carried him to
where we stood and held him choking.

"Boys, we can't keep Tom up there. When he jumps, keep out of his way.
Maybe we can chase him up a better tree."

Old Tom suddenly left the branches, swinging violently; and hitting the
ground like a huge cat on springs, he bounded off, tail up, in a most
ludicrous manner. His running, however, did not lack speed, for he
quickly outdistanced the bursting hounds.

A stampede for horses succeeded this move. I had difficulty in closing
my camera, which I had forgotten until the last moment, and got behind
the others. Satan sent the dust flying and the pinyon branches
crashing. Hardly had I time to bewail my ill-luck in being left, when I
dashed out of a thick growth of trees to come upon my companions, all
dismounted on the rim of the Grand Canyon.

"He's gone down! He's gone down!" raged Jones, stamping the ground.
"What luck! What miserable luck! But don't quit; spread along the rim,
boys, and look for him. Cougars can't fly. There's a break in the rim
somewhere."

The rock wall, on which we dizzily stood, dropped straight down for a
thousand feet, to meet a long, pinyon-covered slope, which graded a
mile to cut off into what must have been the second wall. We were far
west of Clarke's trail now, and faced a point above where Kanab Canyon,
a red gorge a mile deep, met the great canyon. As I ran along the rim,
looking for a fissure or break, my gaze seemed impellingly drawn by the
immensity of this thing I could not name, and for which I had as yet no
intelligible emotion.

Two "Waa-hoos" in the rear turned me back in double-quick time, and
hastening by the horses, I found the three men grouped at the head of a
narrow break.

"He went down here. Wallace saw him round the base of that tottering
crag."

The break was wedge-shaped, with the sharp end off toward the rim, and
it descended so rapidly as to appear almost perpendicular. It was a
long, steep slide of small, weathered shale, and a place that no man in
his right senses would ever have considered going down. But Jones,
designating Frank and me, said in his cool, quick voice:

"You fellows go down. Take Jude and Sounder in leash. If you find his
trail below along the wall, yell for us. Meanwhile, Wallace and I will
hang over the rim and watch for him."

Going down, in one sense, was much easier than had appeared, for the
reason that once started we moved on sliding beds of weathered stone.
Each of us now had an avalanche for a steed. Frank forged ahead with a
roar, and then seeing danger below, tried to get out of the mass. But
the stones were like quicksand; every step he took sunk him in deeper.
He grasped the smooth cliff, to find holding impossible. The slide
poured over a fall like so much water. He reached and caught a branch
of a pinyon, and lifting his feet up, hung on till the treacherous area
of moving stones had passed.

While I had been absorbed in his predicament, my avalanche augmented
itself by slide on slide, perhaps loosened by his; and before I knew
it, I was sailing down with ever-increasing momentum. The sensation was
distinctly pleasant, and a certain spirit, before restrained in me, at
last ran riot. The slide narrowed at the drop where Frank had jumped,
and the stones poured over in a stream. I jumped also, but having a
rifle in one hand, failed to hold, and plunged down into the slide
again. My feet were held this time, as in a vise. I kept myself upright
and waited. Fortunately, the jumble of loose stone slowed and stopped,
enabling me to crawl over to one side where there was comparatively
good footing. Below us, for fifty yards was a sheet of rough stone, as
bare as washed granite well could be. We slid down this in regular
schoolboy fashion, and had reached another restricted neck in the
fissure, when a sliding crash above warned us that the avalanches had
decided to move of their own free will. Only a fraction of a moment had
we to find footing along the yellow cliff, when, with a cracking roar,
the mass struck the slippery granite. If we had been on that slope, our
lives would not have been worth a grain of the dust flying in clouds
above us. Huge stones, that had formed the bottom of the slides, shot
ahead, and rolling, leaping, whizzed by us with frightful velocity, and
the remainder groaned and growled its way down, to thunder over the
second fall and die out in a distant rumble.

The hounds had hung back, and were not easily coaxed down to us. From
there on, down to the base of the gigantic cliff, we descended with
little difficulty.

"We might meet the old gray cat anywheres along here," said Frank.

The wall of yellow limestone had shelves, ledges, fissures and cracks,
any one of which might have concealed a lion. On these places I turned
dark, uneasy glances. It seemed to me events succeeded one another so
rapidly that I had no time to think, to examine, to prepare. We were
rushed from one sensation to another.

"Gee! look here," said Frank; "here's his tracks. Did you ever see the
like of that?"

Certainly I had never fixed my eyes on such enormous cat-tracks as
appeared in the yellow dust at the base of the rim wall. The mere sight
of them was sufficient to make a man tremble.

"Hold in the dogs, Frank," I called. "Listen. I think I heard a yell."

From far above came a yell, which, though thinned out by distance, was
easily recognized as Jones's. We returned to the opening of the break,
and throwing our heads back, looked up the slide to see him coming down.

"Wait for me! Wait for me! I saw the lion go in a cave. Wait for me!"

With the same roar and crack and slide of rocks as had attended our
descent, Jones bore down on us. For an old man it was a marvelous
performance. He walked on the avalanches as though he wore seven-league
boots, and presently, as we began to dodge whizzing bowlders, he
stepped down to us, whirling his coiled lasso. His jaw bulged out; a
flash made fire in his cold eyes.

"Boys, we've got Old Tom in a corner. I worked along the rim north and
looked over every place I could. Now, maybe you won't believe it, but I
heard him pant. Yes, sir, he panted like the tired lion he is. Well,
presently I saw him lying along the base of the rim wall. His tongue
was hanging out. You see, he's a heavy lion, and not used to running
long distances. Come on, now. It's not far. Hold in the dogs. You there
with the rifle, lead off, and keep your eyes peeled."

Single file, we passed along in the shadow of the great cliff. A wide
trail had been worn in the dust.

"A lion run-way," said Jones. "Don't you smell the cat?"

Indeed, the strong odor of cat was very pronounced; and that, without
the big fresh tracks, made the skin on my face tighten and chill. As we
turned a jutting point in the wall, a number of animals, which I did
not recognize, plunged helter-skelter down the canyon slope.

"Rocky Mountain sheep!" exclaimed Jones. "Look! Well, this is a
discovery. I never heard of a bighorn in the Canyon."

It was indicative of the strong grip Old Tom had on us that we at once
forgot the remarkable fact of coming upon those rare sheep in such a
place.

Jones halted us presently before a deep curve described by the rim
wall, the extreme end of which terminated across the slope in an
impassable projecting corner.

"See across there, boys. See that black hole. Old Tom's in there."

"What's your plan?" queried the cowboy sharply.

"Wait. We'll slip up to get better lay of the land."

We worked our way noiselessly along the rim-wall curve for several
hundred yards and came to a halt again, this time with a splendid
command of the situation. The trail ended abruptly at the dark cave, so
menacingly staring at us, and the corner of the cliff had curled back
upon itself. It was a box-trap, with a drop at the end, too great for
any beast, a narrow slide of weathered stone running down, and the rim
wall trail. Old Tom would plainly be compelled to choose one of these
directions if he left his cave.

"Frank, you and I will keep to the wall and stop near that scrub
pinyon, this side of the hole. If I rope him, I can use that tree."

Then he turned to me:

"Are you to be depended on here?"

"I? What do you want me to do?" I demanded, and my whole breast seemed
to sink in.

"You cut across the head of this slope and take up your position in the
slide below the cave, say just by that big stone. From there you can
command the cave, our position and your own. Now, if it is necessary to
kill this lion to save me or Frank, or, of course, yourself, can you be
depended upon to kill him?"

I felt a queer sensation around my heart and a strange tightening of
the skin upon my face! What a position for me to be placed in! For one
instant I shook like a quivering aspen leaf. Then because of the pride
of a man, or perhaps inherited instincts cropping out at this perilous
moment, I looked up and answered quietly:

"Yes. I will kill him!"

"Old Tom is cornered, and he'll come out. He can run only two ways:
along this trail, or down that slide. I'll take my stand by the scrub
pinyon there so I can get a hitch if I rope him. Frank, when I give the
word, let the dogs go. Grey, you block the slide. If he makes at us,
even if I do get my rope on him, kill him! Most likely he'll jump down
hill--then you'll HAVE to kill him! Be quick. Now loose the hounds. Hi!
Hi! Hi! Hi!"

I jumped into the narrow slide of weathered stone and looked up.
Jones's stentorian yell rose high above the clamor of the hounds. He
whirled his lasso.

A huge yellow form shot over the trail and hit the top of the slide
with a crash. The lasso streaked out with arrowy swiftness, circled,
and snapped viciously close to Old Tom's head. "Kill him! Kill him!"
roared Jones. Then the lion leaped, seemingly into the air above me.
Instinctively I raised my little automatic rifle. I seemed to hear a
million bellowing reports. The tawny body, with its grim, snarling
face, blurred in my sight. I heard a roar of sliding stones at my feet.
I felt a rush of wind. I caught a confused glimpse of a whirling wheel
of fur, rolling down the slide.

Then Jones and Frank were pounding me, and yelling I know not what.
From far above came floating down a long "Waa-hoo!" I saw Wallace
silhouetted against the blue sky. I felt the hot barrel of my rifle,
and shuddered at the bloody stones below me--then, and then only, did I
realize, with weakening legs, that Old Tom had jumped at me, and had
jumped to his death.





Next: Singing Cliffs

Previous: On To The Siwash



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