The Last of the Plainsmen 



that he must sooner or later take to a tree, brought 

 from me a yell of irresistible wild joy. 



&quot; Hi! Hi! Hi! &quot; answered Jones. 



The whipping wind with its pine-scented fra 

 grance, warm as the breath of summer, was intoxicat 

 ing as wine. The huge pines, too kingly for close 

 communion with their kind, made wide arches under 

 which the horses stretched out long and low, with 

 supple, springy, powerful strides. Frank s yell rang 

 clear as a bell. We saw him curve to the right, and 

 took his yell as a signal for us to cut across. Then 

 we began to close in on him, and to hear more dis 

 tinctly the baying of the hounds. 



&quot; Hi ! Hi \ Hi ! Hi ! &quot; bawled Jones, and his great 

 trumpet voice rolled down the forest glades. 



&quot; Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! Hi ! &quot; I screeched, in wild recog 

 nition of the spirit of the moment. 



Fast as they were flying, the bay and the black 

 responded to our cries, and quickened, strained and 

 lengthened under us till the trees sped by in blurs. 



There, plainly in sight ahead ran the hounds, Don 

 leading, Sounder next, and Moze not fifty yards 

 behind a desperately running lion. 



There are all-satisfying moments of life. That 

 chase through the open forest, under the stately 

 pines, with the wild, tawny quarry in plain sight; and 

 the glad staccato yelps of the hounds filling my ears 



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