CHAPTER XIII 



SINGING CLIFFS 



OLD TOM had rolled two hundred yards 

 down the canon, leaving a red trail and bits 

 of fur behind him. When I had clambered 

 down to the steep slide where he had lodged, 

 Sounder and Jude had just decided he was no longer 

 worth biting, and were wagging their tails. Frank 

 was shaking his head, and Jones, standing above the 

 lion, lasso in hand, wore a disconsolate face. 

 &quot; Flow I wish I had got the rope on him ! &quot; 

 &quot; I reckon we d be gatherin up the pieces of you 

 if you had,&quot; said Frank, dryly. 



We skinned the old king on the rocky slope of his 

 mighty throne, and then, beginning to feel the effects 

 of severe exertion, we cut across the slope for the foot 

 of the break. Once there, we gazed up in dismay. 

 That break resembled a walk of life how easy to 

 slip down, how hard to climb ! Even Frank, inured 

 as he was to strenuous toil, began to swear and wipe 

 his sweaty brow before we had made one-tenth of the 

 ascent. It was particularly exasperating, not to men- 



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