The Last of the Plainsmen 



The irregular ragged crack in the plain, apparently 

 only a thread of broken ground, was the Grand 

 Canon. How unutterably remote, wild, grand was 

 that 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 with lead-colored clouds, marked where 

 the sun had set. The air was very thin and icy cold. 

 At the first clump of pinon pines, we made dry camp. 

 When I sat down it was as if I had been anchored. 

 Frank solicitously remarked that I looked &quot; sort of 

 beat.&quot; Jim built a roaring fire and began getting 

 supper. A snow squall came on the rushing wind. 

 The air grew colder, and though I hugged the fire, 

 I could not get warm. When I had satisfied my hun 

 ger, I rolled out my sleeping-bag and crept into it. 

 I stretched my aching limbs and did not move again. 

 Once I awoke, drowsily feeling the warmth of the 

 fire, and I heard Frank say: &quot; He s asleep, dead to 

 the world!&quot; 



&quot; He s all in,&quot; said Jones. &quot; Riding s what did it. 

 You know how a horse tears a man to pieces.&quot; 



&quot; Will he be able to stand it? &quot; asked Frank, with 

 as much solicitude as if he were my brother. &quot; When 

 you get out after anythin well, you re hell. An 

 think of the country we re goin into. I know you ve 



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