The Last of the Plainsmen 



black darkness came the staccato chorus of coyotes. 

 Don barked his displeasure ; Sounder made the welkin 

 ring, and old Moze growled low and deep, grum 

 bling like muttered thunder. Then all was quiet, 

 and I slept 



Dawn, rosy red, confronted me when I opened my 

 eyes. Breakfast was ready; Frank was packing Old 

 Baldy; Jones talked to his horse as he saddled him; 

 Wallace came stooping his giant figure under the 

 pinons ; the dogs, eager and soft-eyed, sat around Jim 

 and begged. The sun peeped over the Pink Cliffs; 

 the desert still lay asleep, tranced in a purple and 

 golden-streaked mist. 



&quot; Come, come ! &quot; said Jones, in his big voice. 

 &quot; We re slow; here s the sun.&quot; 



&quot; Easy, easy,&quot; replied Frank, &quot; we ve all the time 

 there is.&quot; 



When Frank threw the saddle over Satan I inter 

 rupted him and said I would care for my horse hence 

 forward. Soon we were under way, the horses fresh, 

 the dogs scenting the keen, cold air. 



The trail rolled over the ridges of pifion and 

 scrubby pine. Occasionally we could see the black, 

 ragged crest of Buckskin above us. From one of 

 these ridges I took my last long look back at the 

 desert, and engraved on my mind a picture of the 

 red wall, and the many-hued ocean of sand. The 



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