The Last of the Plainsmen 



crag recalled me to the living aspect of the scene. 

 Jones was leaning far down in a niche, at seeming 

 great hazard of life, yelling with all the power of his 

 strong lungs. Frank stood still farther out on a 

 cracked point that made me tremble, and his yell 

 reenforced Jones s. From far below rolled up a 

 chorus of thrilling bays and yelps, and Jim s call, 

 faint, but distinct on that wonderfully thin air, with 

 its unmistakable note of warning. 



Then on the slide I saw a lion headed for the rim 

 wall and climbing fast. I added my exultant cry 

 to the medley, and I stretched my arms wide to that 

 illimitable void and gloried in a moment full to the 

 brim of the tingling joy of existence. I did not con 

 sider how painful it must have been to the toiling 

 lion. It was only the spell of wild environment, of 

 perilous yellow crags, of thin, dry air, of voice of 

 man and dog, of the stinging expectation of sharp 

 action, of life. 



I watched the lion growing bigger and bigger. I 

 saw Don and Sounder run from the pinon into the 

 open slide, and heard their impetuous burst of wild 

 yelps as they saw their game. Then Jones s clarion 

 yell made me bound for my horse. I reached him, 

 was about to mount, when Moze came trotting 

 toward me. I caught the old gladiator. When he 

 heard the chorus from below, he plunged like a mad 



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