The Last of the Plainsmen 



little Illinois village were at play, he roamed the 

 prairies, or the rolling, wooded hills, or watched a 

 gopher hole. That boy was father of the man: for 

 sixty years an enduring passion for dominion over 

 wild animals had possessed him, and made his life 

 an endless pursuit. 



Our guests, the Navajos, departed early, and van 

 ished silently in the gloom of the desert. We set 

 tled down again into a quiet that was broken 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 crouch down, and the other 

 hounds cowered close together. 



&quot; Better tie up the dogs,&quot; suggested Jones. &quot; Like 

 as not coyotes run down here from the hills.&quot; 



The hounds were my especial delight. But Jones 

 regarded them with considerable contempt. When 

 all was said, this was no small wonder, for that 

 quintet of long-eared canines would have tried the 

 patience of a saint. Old Moze was a Missouri hound 

 that Jones had procured in that State of uncertain 

 qualities; and the dog had grown old over coon- 

 trails. He was black and white, grizzled and battle- 

 scarred; and if ever a dog had an evil eye, Moze 

 was that dog. He had a way of wagging his tail 



