Old Tom





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.





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