Old Tom 



&quot; Hyar, Moze ! Come down out of that!&quot; 

 hoarsely shouted Jones. 



Moze had begun to climb the thick, many- 

 branched, low pinon tree. He paid not the slightest 

 attention to Jones, who screamed and raged at him. 



u Cover the lion ! &quot; cried he to me. &quot; Don t shoot 

 unless he crouches to jump on me.&quot; 



The little beaded front-sight wavered slightly as I 

 held my rifle leveled at the grim, snarling face, and 

 out of the corner of my eye, as it were, I saw Jones 

 dash in under the lion and grasp Moze by the hind 

 leg and haul him down. He broke from Jones 

 and leaped again to the first low branch. His mas 

 ter then grasped his collar and carried him to where 

 we stood and held him choking. 



&quot; Boys, we can t keep Tom up there. When he 

 jumps, keep out of his way. Maybe we can chase 

 him up a better tree.&quot; 



Old Tom suddenly left the branches, swinging 

 violently; and hitting the ground like a huge cat on 

 springs, he bounded off, tail up, in a most ludicrous 

 manner. His running, however, did not lack speed, 

 for he quickly outdistanced the bursting hounds. 



A stampede for horses succeeded this move. I had 

 difficulty in closing my camera, which I had forgotten 

 until the last moment, and got behind the others. 

 Satan sent the dust flying and the pinon branches 



225 



