The Arizona Desert 



an indeterminate, equivocal sort of wag, as if he real 

 ized his ugliness and knew he stood little chance of 

 making friends, but was still hopeful and willing. 

 As for me, the first time he manifested this evidence 

 of a good heart under a rough coat, he won me 

 forever. 



To tell of Moze s derelictions up to that time 

 would take more space than would a history of the 

 whole trip; but the enumeration of several incidents 

 will at once stamp him as a dog of character, and will 

 establish the fact that even if his progenitors had 

 never taken any blue ribbons, they had at least 

 bequeathed him fighting blood. At Flagstaff we 

 chained him in the yard of a livery stable. Next 

 morning we found him hanging by his chain on the 

 other side of an eight-foot fence. We took him 

 down, expecting to have the sorrowful duty of bury 

 ing him; but Moze shook himself, wagged his tail, 

 and then pitched into the livery stable dog. As a 

 matter of fact, fighting was his forte. He whipped 

 all of the dogs in Flagstaff; and when our blood 

 hounds came on from California, he put three of them 

 hors de combat at once, and subdued the pup with a 

 savage growl. His crowning feat, however, made 

 even the stoical Jones open his mouth in amaze. We 

 had taken Moze to the El Tovar at the Grand 

 Canon, and finding it impossible to get over to the 



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