The Last of the Plainsmen 



A long time I had to wait for the hound. It 

 proved that the atmosphere was as deceiving in 

 regard to sound as to sight. Finally Sounder came 

 running along the wall. I got off to intercept him. 

 The crazy fellow he had never responded to my 

 overtures of friendship uttered short, sharp yelps 

 of delight, and actually leaped into my arms. But 

 I could not hold him. He darted upon the trail 

 again and paid no heed to my angry shouts. With 

 a resolve to overhaul him, I jumped on Satan and 

 whirled after the hound. 



The black stretched out with such a stride that I 

 was at pains to keep my seat. I dodged the jutting 

 rocks and projecting snags; felt stinging branches in 

 my face and the rush of sweet, dry wind. Under 

 the crumbling v. T alls, over slopes of weathered stone 

 and droppings of shelving rock, round protruding 

 noses of cliff, over and under pinons Satan thundered. 

 He came out on the top of the ridge, at the narrow 

 back I had called a saddle. Here I caught a glimpse 

 of Sounder far below, going down into the ravine 

 from which I had ascended some time before. I 

 called to him, but I might as well have called to the 

 wind. 



Weary to the point of exhaustion, I once more 

 turned Satan toward camp. I lay forward on his 

 neck and let him have his will. Far down the ravine 



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