Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Curley and Mux, yelping as they came, were forerunners of Hiram. I saw his gray locks waving in the breeze, and shouted to him to take his time. As he reached me the lion jumped and ran up the cañon. This suited me, for I knew he would take to a tree soon, and the farther up he went the less distance we would have to pack him. From the cliff I saw him run up a slope, pass a big cedar, cunningly turn on his trail, and then climb into the tree and hide in its thickest part. Prince passed him, got off the trail, and ran at fault. The others, so used to his leadership, were also baffled. But Queen, crippled and slow, brought up the rear, and she did not go a yard beyond where the lion turned. She opened up her deep call under the cedar, and in a moment the howling pack were around her.

  Hiram and I toiled laboriously upward. He had brought my lasso, and he handed it to me with the significant remark that I would soon have need of it.

  The cedar was bushy and overhung a yellow, bare slope which made Hiram shake his head. He climbed the tree, lassoed the spitting lion and then leaped down to my side. By united and determined efforts we pulled the lion off the limb and let him down. The hounds began to leap at him. We both roared in rage at them, but to no avail.

  “Hold on thar!” shouted Hiram, leaving me with the lasso while he sprang forward.

  The weight of the animal dragged me forward and, had I not taken a half-hitch round a snag, would have lifted me off my feet or pulled the lasso from my hands. As it was, the choking lion, now within reach of the furious leaping hounds, swung to and fro before my face. His frantic lunges narrowly missed me.

  Hiram grasped Prince by the hind legs and pitched him down the slope. Prince rolled a hundred feet before he caught himself. Then Hiram threw old Mux and Ringer and Curley, but he let Queen alone. Before the hounds could climb the slope Hiram roped the lion again and made fast his lasso to a tree.

  “Let go,” he yelled to me.

  The lion fell. Hiram grasped the lasso I had held and then called to me to stop the hounds. By the time I had checked them he had the lion securely tied. This beast was the bold fellow which had given Ken such a battle. He lay now, his sides heaving, glaring and spitting at us.

  “Leslie — I’m all in,” panted Hiram. “Climbin’ them awful slopes — ketches me in the heart. I can’t go down agin. Thar’s Jim guardin’ the first cougar. Ken is watchin’ the second, the one I fastened with chain an’ lasso to a swingin’ branch. An’ hyar’s the third. Three cougars!...Wal, I never beat thet in my life. An’ I want the day to be a great success fer Ken’s sake.”

  “Hiram, when you’ve rested go after the packhorses. Bring them all and the packs and Navvy, too. You take the hounds with you and leave them in camp. Ken and I will tie up the second lion. Then we’ll call Jim up and pack the two lions up here to this one. You meet us here.”

  “Mind you, thet second cougar’s loose except fer collar an’ chain. His claws hevn’t been clipped. He’ll fight. An’ it’ll be a job to pack ’em up hyar. But I can’t climb no more.”

  “Find your horse and hustle for camp,” I replied.

  Hiram wearily climbed the slope, followed by the hounds, and I took the back-trail down into the cañon. I noted, now that I was calm, what a long distance we had covered. I made fast time, however, and soon found Ken standing guard over his captive. This lion had been tied to an overhanging branch which swung violently with every move he made.

  “Say! did you get the third one?” asked Ken. “You bet we did.”

  “Now what?”

  “Well, I’ll go down until I can make Jim hear. I’ll call him to come up with his lion. You stay here till I get hack.”

  It was another long tramp down to the edge of that slope, but I reached it and yelled for Jim. He answered, and then I told him to come up with his cougar. I sat down to wait for him, thinking he would be glad of a little help. An hour and a half passed before I heard the sliding of stones below which told me Jim was coming. He appeared on the lower slope carrying the lion head downward. Manifestly he was having toilsome work. He could climb only a few steps without lowering his burden and resting.

  I ran down to meet him. He was red of face, wringing wet with sweat, and almost out of breath and patience.

  “Shore — I’m ‘most — tuck — ered out,” he said

  We secured a stout pole, and slipping this between the paws of the lion, below where they were tied, we managed to carry him fairly well. But he was heavy, the slope was steep, the sliding stones treacherous, and the task nearly exhausted us. We climbed by the shortest way and so passed to the right of Ken. At last we toiled up to where I had parted from Hiram. Jim fell in the shade and breathed hard.

  “Leslie — I — might — git down there — to Ken — but I’d never git back. I’m used to ridin’ — a hoss.”

  So I had to go again alone, and discovered Ken sitting guard faithfully over his charge.

  “Wasn’t I gone a long while?” I asked. “Couldn’t help it, Ken.”

  “It didn’t seem long to me,” replied Ken.

  That was the difference in time as seen through the eyes of fiery youth and enthusiasm.

  “Now to tie that rascal,” I said. “It’s coming to us, Ken. Hiram didn’t pay compliments to this particular cougar. We’ll cut a piece off each lasso and unravel them so as to leave enough strings. I wish Hiram hadn’t tied the lasso to that swinging branch.”

  “I’ll go up and untie it,” replied Ken. Acting upon this, he climbed the piñon and started out on the branch.

  “Hold on!” I warned. “I’m afraid you’d better stop. How on earth did Hiram tie that rope there, anyway?”

  “He bent the branch down.”

  “Well, it’s bending now, and that darned cougar might reach you. I don’t like his looks.”

  But despite this Ken slipped out a couple of yards farther, and had almost gotten to the knotted lasso, when the branch swayed and bent alarmingly. The cougar sprang from his niche between the tree-trunk and a rock, and crouched under Ken, snarling and hissing, with every intention of leaping.

  “Jump! Jump!” I shouted.

  “I can’t jump out of his reach,” cried Ken.

  He raised his legs and began to slide himself back up the branch. The cougar leaped, missing him, but scattering twigs and hark. Then the beast, beside himself with fury, half leaped, half stood up and reached for Ken.

  I saw his hooked claws fasten in Ken’s leather wristband. The lad yelled shrilly. I dashed forward, grasped the lion by the tail, and with one powerful swing I tore him loose and flung him down the slope to the full extent of the rope. Quick as thought Ken jumped down, and we both sought a safer locality.

  “Whew!” whistled Ken, holding out his hand.

  “It’s a nasty scratch,” I said, binding my handkerchief round his wrist. “The leather saved your hand from being torn off. He’s an ugly brute.”

  “We’ll tie him — or — or—” Ken declared, without finishing his speech.

  “Ken, let’s each take a lasso and worry him till we both get hold of a paw.”

  Hiram did a fiendish thing when he tied that lion to the swinging branch. It was almost worse than having him entirely free. He had a circle about twenty feet in diameter in which he could run and leap at will. He seemed to be in the air all the time. He sprang first at Ken, then at me, mouth agape, eyes wild, claws spread. We caught him with our nooses, but they would not hold. He tore each noose off before we could draw it tight. Once I got a precarious hold on one hind paw and straightened my lasso.

  “Hold him tight, but don’t lift him,” called Ken. He held his noose ready, waiting for a favorable chance.

  The lion crouched low, his body tense, his long tail lashing back and forth across my lasso. Ken threw the loop in front of the spread paws, now half sunk into the dust.

  “Ease up, ease up,” said he. “I’ll tease him to jump into the noose.” I let my rope sag. Ken poked a stick at the lion. All at once I saw the slack in the lasso which was tied to the
chain. Before I could yell to warn my comrade the beast leaped. My rope burned as it slipped through my hands. The lion sailed into the air, his paws wide-spread like wings, and one of them struck Ken on the head and rolled him down the slope. I jerked back on my rope to find it had slipped its hold.

  “He slugged me one,” remarked Ken, rising and picking up his hat. “Did he break the skin?”

  “No, but he tore your hatband off,” I replied. “Let’s keep at him.”

  For a few moments or an hour — no one will ever know how long — we ran around him, raising the dust, scattering stones, breaking the branches, as we dodged his onslaughts. He leaped at us to the full length of his tether, sailing right into our faces, a fierce, uncowable, tigerish beast. If it had not been for the collar and swivel he would have choked himself a hundred times. Quick as a cat, supple, powerful, tireless, he kept on the go, whirling, bounding, leaping, rolling, till it seemed we would never catch him.

  “If anything breaks, he’ll get one of us,” cried Ken. “I felt his breath that time.”

  “Lord! How I wish we had some of those fellows here who say lions are rank cowards!” I exclaimed.

  In one of his sweeping side swings the lion struck the rock and hung there on its flat surface with his tail hanging over.

  “Attract his attention,” I shouted, “but don’t get too close; don’t make him jump.”

  While Ken slowly manoeuvered in front of the lion I slipped behind the rock, lunged for the long tail and got a good hold of it. Then with a whoop I ran around the rock, carrying the kicking, squalling lion clear of the ground.

  “Now’s your chance,” I yelled. “Rope a hind foot! I can hold him.”

  In a second Ken had a noose fast on both hind paws, and then passed his rope to me. While I held the lion he again climbed the tree, untied the knot that had caused so much trouble, and shortly we had our obstinate captive stretched out between two trees. After which we took a much-needed breathing spell.

  “Not very scientific,” I said, by way of apologizing for our crude work, “but we had to get him some way.”

  “Dick, do you know, I believe Hiram put up a job on us?” said Ken.

  “Well, maybe he did. We had the job all right. But we’ll make short work of him now.”

  While Ken held the chain I muzzled the lion with a stick and strands of lasso.

  “Now for the hardest part of it,” said I— “packing him up.”

  We toiled painfully upward, resting every few yards, wet with sweat, burning with heat, parching for water. We slipped and fell, got up, to slip and fall again. The dust choked us. Unheedingly we risked our lives on the brinks of precipices. We had no thought save to get the lion up.

  We had to climb partly sidewise, with the pole in the hollow of our elbows. The lion dragged head downward, catching in the brush and on the stones. Our rests became more frequent. I had the downward end of the pole, and therefore thrice the weight, and I whistled when I drew breath. Half the time I saw red mist before my eyes. How I hated the sliding stones!

  “Wait,” I panted once. “You’re younger — than I — wait!”

  At last we dropped our burden in the shade of a cedar where the other lions lay, and we stretched ourselves for a long, sweet rest.

  “Wonder — where Jim is?” I said.

  Then I heard the lions wheezing, coughing.

  “Ken! Look! The lions are choking. They’re choking of thirst. They’ll die if we don’t get water...That’s where Jim is — hunting water.”

  “Water in this dry place? Where will we find it?” implored Ken.

  After all our efforts and wonderful good luck the thought of losing those beautiful cougars for lack of a little water was almost sickening.

  “Ken, I can’t do another lick. I’m played out. You must find water. Don’t hope and wait for Jim. Go yourself. It snowed yesterday.”

  Then into my mind flashed a picture of the many little pockets beaten by rains into the shelves and promontories of the cañon rim.

  When I told Ken he leaped up and ran like a startled deer. I watched him with curious pride and faith. What an athlete he was! He swung up over boulders, he drew himself up by grasping branches, he walked straight up steep slides. The roar of a starting avalanche came from under his heels. Then he reached the rim and disappeared.

  For what seemed a long time he remained out of my sight; then he appeared carrying his cap in both hands. He had found water.

  He began the downward journey. Like a tightrope performer he balanced himself on crumbling stones. He stepped with the skill of a goat; he zigzagged weathered slopes; he leaped fissures and ran along yellow slides. The farther down he got, the faster he came, until it seemed as if he had wings. Places that in an ordinary moment would have seemed impassable he sailed over with the light touch of sure feet. Then he bore down upon me with an Indian yell of triumph.

  “Ken, old boy, you’re a wonder!” I exclaimed.

  He grasped a lion by the ears and held his head up. I saturated my handkerchief and squeezed the water into his mouth. He wheezed, coughed, choked, but to our joy he swallowed. He had to swallow. One after another we served them so, seeing with unmistakable relief the sure signs of recovery. Their eyes cleared and brightened; the dry coughing that distressed us so ceased; the froth came no more. Spitfire, as we had christened the savage brute which had fought us to a standstill, raised his head, the gold in his beautiful eyes glowed like fire, and he growled in token of returning life and defiance.

  Ken and I sank back in unutterable relief.

  “Waa-hoo!” Hiram’s yell came breaking the warm quiet of the slope. Our comrade appeared riding down. The voice of the Indian calling to Marc mingled with the ringing of iron-shod hoofs on the stones.

  Then Jim, stooping under the cedars, appeared from the opposite direction.

  “Hello! Shore I’ve been huntin’ water, an’ couldn’t find none. Hevn’t you seen the need of it?” Suddenly he grasped the situation, and his red face relaxed and beamed.

  Hiram surveyed the small level spot in the shade of the cedars. He gazed from the lions to us, and his dry laugh split the air.

  “Dog-gone me if you didn’t do it!”

  CHAPTER XVIII - HAL’S LESSON

  IT WAS A strange procession that soon emerged from Left Cañon. Stranger to us than the lion heads bobbing out of the sacks was the sight of Navvy riding in front of the lions. I kept well in the rear, for if anything happened, which I thought more than likely, I wanted to see it. Before we had reached the outskirts of the pines, I observed that the piece of lasso round Spitfire’s nose had worked loose.

  I was about to speak when the lion opened a corner of his mouth and fastened his teeth in the Navajo’s overalls. He did not catch the flesh, for when Navvy turned he wore only the expression of curiosity. But when he saw Spitfire chewing at him he uttered a shrill scream and fell sidewise off his horse.

  Then there were two difficulties; to catch the frightened horse and to persuade the Indian he had not been bitten. We failed in the latter. Navvy gave us and the lions a wide berth, and walked to camp.

  Hal was waiting for us, and said he had chased a lion south along the rim till the hound got away from him.

  Spitfire, having already been chained, was the first lion we endeavored to introduce to our family of captives. He raised such a fearful row that we had to take him quite a little distance from the others.

  “We hey two dog chains,” said Hiram, “but not a collar or a swivel in camp. We can’t chain the lions without swivels. They’d choke themselves in two minutes.”

  Once more for the hundredth time he came to the rescue with his inventive and mechanical skill. He took the largest pair of hobbles we had, and with an axe, a knife, and wire nippers fashioned two collars with swivels that in strength and serviceability were an improvement on those we had bought.

  Darkness was enveloping the forest when we finished supper. I fell into my bed and, despite the throbbing and b
urning of my body, soon relapsed into slumber. And I crawled out next morning late for breakfast, stiff, worn out, crippled. The boys, too, were crippled, but happy. Six lions roaring in concert were enough to bring contentment.

  Hiram engaged himself upon a new pair of trousers, which he contrived to produce from two of our empty meal-bags. The lower half of his overalls had gone to decorate the cedar spikes and brush, and these new bag-leg trousers, while somewhat remarkable for design, answered the purpose well enough. His coat was somewhere along the cañon rim, his shoes were full of holes, his shirt in strips, and his trousers in rags. Jim looked like a scarecrow. Ken looked as if he had been fired from a cannon. But, fortunately for him, he had an extra suit.

  Hal spent the afternoon with the lions, photographing them, listening to their spitting and growling, and watching them fight their chains, and roll up like balls of fur. From different parts of the forest he tried to creep unsuspected upon them; but always when he peeped out from behind a tree or log, every pair of ears would be erect, every pair of eyes gleaming and suspicious.

  Spitfire afforded more amusement than all the others. He had indeed the temper of a king; he had been born for sovereignty, not slavery. He tried in every way to frighten Hal, and, failing, he always ended with a spring to the length of his chain. This means was always effective. Hal simply could not stand still when the lion leaped; and in turn he tried every artifice he could think of to make him back away and take refuge behind his tree. He ran at him with a club as if he were going to kill him. Spitfire waited crouching and could not be budged. Finally Hal bethought himself of a red flannel hood that Hiram had given him, saying he might have use for it on cold nights. It was a weird, flaming head-gear, falling, cloak-like, down over Hal’s shoulders. Hal started to crawl on all fours toward Spitfire. This was too much for the cougar. In his astonishment he forgot to spit and growl, and he backed behind the little pine, from which he regarded Hal with growing perplexity.