The Last of the Plainsmen 



&quot; Listen,&quot; he said, when we reined in. 



We complied, but did not hear a sound. 



&quot; Frank s beyond there some place,&quot; continued 

 Jones, &quot; but I can t see him, nor hear the hounds any 

 more. Don and Tige split again on deer trails. Old 

 Jude hung on the lion track, but I stopped her here. 

 There s something I can t figure. Moze held a bee- 

 line southwest, and he yelled seldom. Sounder 

 gradually stopped baying. Maybe Frank can tell 

 us something.&quot; 



Jones s long drawn-out signal was answered from 

 the direction he expected, and after a little time, 

 Frank s white horse shone out of the gray-green of a 

 ridge a mile away. 



This drew my attention to our position. We were 

 on a high ridge out in the open, and I could see fifty 

 miles of the shaggy slopes of Buckskin. Southward 

 the gray, ragged line seemed to stop suddenly, and 

 beyond it purple haze hung over a void I knew to 

 be the canon. And facing west, I came, at last, to 

 understand perfectly the meaning of the breaks in 

 the Siwash. They were nothing more than ravines 

 that headed up on the slopes and ran down, getting 

 deeper and steeper, though scarcely wider, to break 

 into the canon. Knife-crested ridges rolled westward, 

 wave on wave, like the billows of a sea. I appre 

 ciated that these breaks were, at their sources, little 



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