“Pull hard!  Stretch her out!” yelled Jones.  He grasped a stout piece of wood and pushed it at the lioness.  She caught it in her mouth, making the splinters fly.  Jones shoved her head back on the ground and pressed his brawny knee on the bar of wood.

“The collar!  The collar!  Quick!” he called.

I threw chain and collar to him, which in a moment he had buckled round her neck.

“There, we’ve got her!” he said.  “It’s only a short way over to camp, so we’ll drag her without muzzling.”

As he rose the lioness lurched, and reaching him, fastened her fangs in his leg.  Jones roared.  Emett and Jim yelled.  And I, though frightened, was so obsessed with the idea of getting a picture that I began to fumble with the shutter of my camera.

“Grab the chain!  Pull her off!” bawled Jones.

I ran in, took up the chain with both hands, and tugged with all my might.  Emett, too, had all his weight on the lasso round her neck.  Between the two of us we choked her hold loose, but she brought Jones’ leather leggin in her teeth.  Then I dropped the chain and jumped.

“**—­ **—!” exploded Jones to me.  “Do you think more of a picture than of saving my life?” Having expressed this not unreasonable protest, he untied the lasso that Emett had made fast to a small sapling.

Then the three men, forming points of a triangle around an animated center, began a march through the forest that for variety of action and splendid vociferation beat any show I ever beheld.

So rare was it that the Navajo came out of his retreat and, straightway forgetting his reverence and fear, began to execute a ghost-dance, or war-dance, or at any rate some kind of an Indian dance, along the side lines.

There were moments when the lioness had Jim and Jones on the ground and Emett wobbling; others when she ran on her bound legs and chased the two in front and dragged the one behind; others when she came within an ace of getting her teeth in somebody.

They had caught a Tartar.  They dared not let her go, and though Jones evidently ordered it, no one made fast his rope to a tree.  There was no opportunity.  She was in the air three parts of the time and the fourth she was invisible for dust.  The lassos were each thirty feet long, but even with that the men could just barely keep out of her reach.

Then came the climax, as it always comes in a lion hunt, unerringly, unexpectedly, and with lightning swiftness.  The three men were nearing the bottom of the second hollow, well spread out, lassos taut, facing one another.  Jones stumbled and the lioness leaped his way.  The weight of both brought Jim over, sliding and slipping, with his rope slackening.  The leap of the lioness carried her within reach of Jones; and as he raised himself, back toward her, she reached a big paw for him just as Emett threw all his bull strength and bulk on his lasso.

The seat of Jones’ trousers came away with the lioness’ claws.  Then she fell backward, overcome by Emett’s desperate lunge.  Jones sprang up with the velocity of an Arab tumbler, and his scarlet face, working spasmodically, and his moving lips, showed how utterly unable he was to give expression to his rage.  I had a stitch in my side that nearly killed me, but laugh I had to though I should die for it.