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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 386 pages of information about Tales of lonely trails.
horses.  By this time I was so mad I would not get off.  I rode all the way down that steep slope of dense saplings, loose rock slides and earth, and jumble of splintered cliff.  That he did not break my neck and his own spoke the truth about that roan horse.  Despite his inexperience he was great.  We fell over one bank, but a thicket of aspens saved us from rolling.  The avalanches slid from under us until I imagined that the grizzly would be scared.  Once as I stopped to listen I heard bear and pack farther down the canyon—­heard them above the roar of a rushing stream.  They went on and I lost the sounds of fight.  But R.C.’s clear thrilling call floated up to me.  Probably he was worried about me.

Then before I realized it I was at the foot of the slope, in a narrow canyon bed, full of rocks and trees, with the din of roaring water in my ears.  I could hear nothing else.  Tracks were everywhere, and when I came to the first open place I was thrilled.  The grizzly had plunged off a sandy bar into the water, and there he had fought the hounds.  Signs of that battle were easy to read.  I saw where his huge tracks, still wet, led up the opposite sandy bank.

Then, down stream, I did my most reckless riding.  On level ground the horse was splendid.  Once he leaped clear across the brook.  Every plunge, every turn I expected to bring me upon my brother and Teague and that fighting pack.  More than once I thought I heard the spang of the .35 and this made me urge the roan faster and faster.

The canyon narrowed, the stream-bed deepened.  I had to slow down to get through the trees and rocks.  And suddenly I was overjoyed to ride pell-mell upon R.C. and Teague with half the panting hounds.  The canyon had grown too rough for the horses to go farther and it would have been useless for us to try on foot.  As I dismounted, so sore and bruised I could hardly stand, old Jim came limping in to fall into the brook where he lapped and lapped thirstily.  Teague threw up his hands.  Old Jim’s return meant an ended chase.  The grizzly had eluded the hounds in that jumble of rocks below.

“Say, did you meet the bear?” queried Teague, eyeing me in astonishment and mirth.

Bloody, dirty, ragged and wringing wet with sweat I must have been a sight.  R.C. however, did not look so very immaculate, and when I saw he also was lame and scratched and black I felt better.

CHAPTER III

ROPING LIONS IN THE GRAND CANYON

I

The Grand Canyon of Arizona is over two hundred miles long, thirteen wide, and a mile and a half deep; a titanic gorge in which mountains, tablelands, chasms and cliffs lie half veiled in purple haze.  It is wild and sublime, a thing of wonder, of mystery; beyond all else a place to grip the heart of a man, to unleash his daring spirit.

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