“Shore there’s some scent on the wind,”
said Jim, lighting his pipe with a red ember.
“See how uneasy Don is.”
The hound raised his fine, dark head and repeatedly
sniffed the air, then walked to and fro as if on guard
for his pack. Moze ground his teeth on a bone
and growled at one of the pups. Sounder was sleepy,
but he watched Don with suspicious eyes. The other
hounds, mature and somber, lay stretched before the
fire.
“Tie them up, Jim,” said Jones, “and
let’s turn in.”
When I awakened next morning the sound of Emett’s
axe rang out sharply. Little streaks of light
from the camp-fire played between the flaps of the
tent. I saw old Moze get up and stretch himself.
A jangle of cow-bells from the forest told me we would
not have to wait for the horses that morning.
“The Injun’s all right,” Jones remarked
to Emett.
“All rustle for breakfast,” called Jim.
We ate in the semi-darkness with the gray shadow ever
brightening. Dawn broke as we saddled our horses.
The pups were limber, and ran to and fro on their
chains, scenting the air; the older hounds stood quietly
waiting.
“Come Navvy—come chase cougie,”
said Emett.
“Dam! No!” replied the Indian.
“Let him keep camp,” suggested Jim.
“All right; but he’ll eat us out,”
Emett declared.
“Climb up you fellows,” said Jones, impatiently.
“Have I got everything—rope, chains,
collars, wire, nippers? Yes, all right.
Hyar, you lazy dogs—out of this!”
We rode abreast down the ridge. The demeanor
of the hounds contrasted sharply with what it had
been at the start of the hunt the year before.
Then they had been eager, uncertain, violent; they
did not know what was in the air; now they filed after
Don in an orderly trot.
We struck out of the pines at half past five.
Floating mist hid the lower end of the plateau.
The morning had a cool touch but there was no frost.
Crossing Middle Canyon about half way down we jogged
on. Cedar trees began to show bright green against
the soft gray sage. We were nearing the dark
line of the cedar forest when Jim, who led, held up
his hand in a warning check. We closed in around
him.
“Watch Don,” he said.
The hound stood stiff, head well up, nose working,
and the hair on his back bristling. All the other
hounds whined and kept close to him.
“Don scents a lion,” whispered Jim.
“I’ve never known him to do that unless
there was the scent of a lion on the wind.”
“Hunt ’em up Don, old boy,” called
Jones.
The pack commenced to work back and forth along the
ridge. We neared a hollow when Don barked eagerly.
Sounder answered and likewise Jude. Moze’s
short angry “bow-wow” showed the old gladiator
to be in line.
“Ranger’s gone,” cried Jim.
“He was farthest ahead. I’ll bet he’s
struck it. We’ll know in a minute, for we’re
close.”
