The Last of the Plainsmen 



as had attended our descent, Jones bore down on us. 

 For an old man it was a marvelous performance. 

 He walked on the avalanches as though he wore 

 seven-league boots, and presently, as we began to 

 dodge whizzing bowlders, he stepped down to us, 

 whirling his coiled lasso. His jaw bulged out; a 

 flash made fire in his cold eyes. 



&quot; Boys, we ve got Old Tom in a corner. I worked 

 along the rim north and looked over every place I 

 could. Now, maybe you won t believe it, but I heard 

 him pant. Yes, sir, he panted like the tired lion he 

 is. Well, presently I saw him lying along the base 

 of the rim wall. His tongue was hanging out. You 

 see, he s a heavy lion, and not used to running long 

 distances. Come on, now. It s not far. Hold in 

 the dogs. You there with the rifle, lead off, and keep 

 your eyes peeled.&quot; 



Single file, we passed along in the shadow of the 

 great cliff. A wide trail had been worn in the dust. 



&quot; A lion run-way,&quot; said Jones. &quot; Don t you smell 

 the cat?&quot; 



Indeed, the strong odor of cat was very pro 

 nounced ; and that, without the big fresh tracks, made 

 the skin on my face tighten and chill. As we turned 

 a jutting point in the wall, a number of animals, 

 which I did not recognize, plunged helter-skelter 

 down the canon slope. 



230 



