The Trail 



with the bleached treetops standing like spears, and 

 uprising yellow stones. Fancying I heard a gun 

 shot, I leaned a straining ear against the soft breeze. 

 The proof came presently in the unmistakable report 

 of Jones s blunderbuss. It was repeated almost 

 instantly, giving reality to the direction, which was 

 down the slope of what I concluded must be the 

 third ravine. Wondering what was the meaning of 

 the shots, and chagrined because I was out of the 

 race, but calmer in mind, I let Satan stand. 



Hardly a moment elapsed before a sharp bark 

 tingled in my ears. It belonged to old Moze. Soon 

 I distinguished a rattling of stones and the sharp, 

 metallic clicks of hoofs striking recks. Then into 

 a space below me loped a beautiful deer, so large that 

 at first I took it for an eik. Another sharp bark, 

 nearer this time, told the tale of Moze s dereliction. 

 In a few moments he came in sight, running with 

 his tongue out and his head high. 



&quot; Hyah, you old gladiator! hyah! hyah! &quot; I yelled 

 and yelled again. Moze passed over the saddle on 

 the trail of the deer, and his short bark floated back 

 to remind me how far he was from a lion dog. 



Then I divined the meaning of the shotgun 

 reports. The hounds had crossed a fresher trail than 

 that of the lion, and our leader had discovered it. 

 Despite a keen appreciation of Jones s task, I gave 



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