The Last of the Plainsmen

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Last of the Plainsmen

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

On the ride back to camp Jones expressed himself thus: "How happy
I am that I can keep this lion and the others we are going to
capture, for my own. When I was in the Yellowstone Park I did not
get to keep one of the many I captured. The military officials
took them from me."

When we reached camp Lawson was absent, but fortunately Old Baldy
browsed near at hand, and was easily caught. Frank said he would
rather take Old Baldy for the cougar than any other horse we had.
Leaving me in camp, he and Jones rode off to fetch Kitty.

About five o'clock they came trotting up through the forest with
Jim, who had fallen in with them on the way. Old Baldy had
remained true to his fame--nothing, not even a cougar bothered
him. Kitty, evidently no worse for her experience, was chained to
a pine tree about fifty feet from the campfire.

Wallace came riding wearily in, and when he saw the captive, he
greeted us with an exultant yell. He got there just in time to
see the first special features of Kitty's captivity. The hounds
surrounded her, and could not be called off. We had to beat them.
Whereupon the six jealous canines fell to fighting among
themselves, and fought so savagely as to be deaf to our cries and
insensible to blows. They had to be torn apart and chained.

About six o'clock Lawson loped in with the horses. Of course he
did not know we had a cougar, and no one seemed interested enough
to inform him. Perhaps only Frank and I thought of it; but I saw
a merry snap in Frank's eyes, and kept silent. Kitty had hidden
behind the pine tree. Lawson, astride Jones' pack horse, a
crochety animal, reined in just abreast of the tree, and
leisurely threw his leg over the saddle. Kitty leaped out to the
extent of her chain, and fairly exploded in a frightful cat-spit.

Lawson had stated some time before that he was afraid of cougars,
which was a weakness he need not have divulged in view of what
happened. The horse plunged, throwing him ten feet, and snorting
in terror, stampeded with the rest of the bunch and disappeared
among the pines.

"Why the hell didn't you tell a feller?" reproachfully growled
the Arizonian. Frank and Jim held each other upright, and the
rest of us gave way to as hearty if not as violent mirth.

We had a gay supper, during which Kitty sat her pine and watched
our every movement.

"We'll rest up for a day or two," said Jones "Things have
commenced to come our way. If I'm not mistaken we'll bring an old
Tom alive into camp. But it would never do for us to get a big
Tom in the fix we had Kitty to-day. You see, I wanted to lasso
her front paw, pull her off the limb, tie my end of the lasso to
the tree, and while she hung I'd go down and rope her hind paws.
It all went wrong to-day, and was as tough a job as I ever
handled."

Not until late next morning did Lawson corral all the horses.
That day we lounged in camp mending broken bridles, saddles,
stirrups, lassoes, boots, trousers, leggins, shirts and even
broken skins.

During this time I found Kitty a most interesting study. She
reminded me of an enormous yellow kitten. She did not appear wild
or untamed until approached. Then she slowly sank down, laid back
her ears, opened her mouth and hissed and spat, at the same time
throwing both paws out viciously. Kitty may have rested, but did
not sleep. At times she fought her chain, tugging and straining
at it, and trying to bite it through. Everything in reach she
clawed, particularly the bark of the tree. Once she tried to hang
herself by leaping over a low limb. When any one walked by her
she crouched low, evidently imagining herself unseen. If one of
us walked toward her, or looked at her, she did not crouch. At
other times, noticeably when no one was near, she would roll on
her back and extend all four paws in the air. Her actions were
beautiful, soft, noiseless, quick and subtle.

The day passed, as all days pass in camp, swiftly and pleasantly,
and twilight stole down upon us round the ruddy fire. The wind
roared in the pines and lulled to repose; the lonesome, friendly
coyote barked; the bells on the hobbled horses jingled sweetly;
the great watch stars blinked out of the blue.

The red glow of the burning logs lighted up Jones's calm, cold
face. Tranquil, unalterable and peaceful it seemed; yet beneath
the peace I thought I saw a suggestion of wild restraint, of
mystery, of unslaked life.

Strangely enough, his next words confirmed my last thought.

"For forty years I've had an ambition. It's to get possession of
an island in the Pacific, somewhere between Vancouver and Alaska,
and then go to Siberia and capture a lot of Russian sables. I'd
put them on the island and cross them with our silver foxes. I'm
going to try it next year if I can find the time."

The ruling passion and character determine our lives. Jones was
sixty-three years old, yet the thing that had ruled and absorbed
his mind was still as strong as the longing for freedom in
Kitty's wild heart.

Hours after I had crawled into my sleeping-bag, in the silence of
night I heard her working to get free. In darkness she was most
active, restless, intense. I heard the clink of her chain, the
crack of her teeth, the scrape of her claws. How tireless she
was. I recalled the wistful light in her eyes that saw, no doubt,
far beyond the campfire to the yellow crags, to the great
downward slopes, to freedom. I slipped my elbow out of the bag
and raised myself. Dark shadows were hovering under the pines. I
saw Kitty's eyes gleam like sparks, and I seemed to see in them
the hate, the fear, the terror she had of the clanking thing that
bound her!

I shivered, perhaps from the cold night wind which moaned through
the pines; I saw the stars glittering pale and far off, and under
their wan light the still, set face of Jones, and blanketed forms
of my other companions.

The last thing I remembered before dropping into dreamless
slumber was hearing a bell tinkle in the forest, which I
recognized as the one I had placed on Satan.

CHAPTER 17. CONCLUSION

Kitty was not the only cougar brought into camp alive. The
ensuing days were fruitful of cougars and adventure. There were
more wild rides to the music of the baying hounds, and more
heart-breaking canyon slopes to conquer, and more swinging,
tufted tails and snarling savage faces in the pinyons. Once
again, I am sorry to relate, I had to glance down the sights of
the little Remington, and I saw blood on the stones. Those
eventful days sped by all too soon.

When the time for parting came it took no little discussion to
decide on the quickest way of getting me to a railroad. I never
fully appreciated the inaccessibility of the Siwash until the
question arose of finding a way out. To return on our back trail
would require two weeks, and to go out by the trail north to Utah
meant half as much time over the same kind of desert. Lawson came
to our help, however, with the information that an occasional
prospector or horse hunter crossed the canyon from the Saddle,
where a trail led down to the river.

"I've heard the trail is a bad one," said Lawson, "an' though I
never seen it, I reckon it could be found. After we get to the
Saddle we'll build two fires on one of the high points an' keep
them burnin' well after dark. If Mr. Bass, who lives on the other
side, sees the fires he'll come down his trail next mornin' an'
meet us at the river. He keeps a boat there. This is takin' a
chance, but I reckon it's worth while."

So it was decided that Lawson and Frank would try to get me out
by way of the canyon; Wallace intended to go by the Utah route,
and Jones was to return at once to his range and his buffalo.

That night round the campfire we talked over the many incidents
of the hunt. Jones stated he had never in his life come so near
getting his "everlasting" as when the big bay horse tripped on a
canyon slope and rolled over him. Notwithstanding the respect
with which we regarded his statement we held different opinions.
Then, with the unfailing optimism of hunters, we planned another
hunt for the next year.

"I'll tell you what," said Jones. "Up in Utah there's a wild
region called Pink Cliffs. A few poor sheep-herders try to raise
sheep in the valleys. They wouldn't be so poor if it was not for
the grizzly and black bears that live on the sheep. We'll go up
there, find a place where grass and water can be had, and camp.
We'll notify the sheep-herders we are there for business. They'll
be only too glad to hustle in with news of a bear, and we can get
the hounds on the trail by sun-up. I'll have a dozen hounds then,
maybe twenty, and all trained. We'll put every black bear we
chase up a tree, and we'll rope and tie him. As to
grizzlies--well, I'm not saying so much. They can't climb trees,
and they are not afraid of a pack of hounds. If we rounded up a
grizzly, got him cornered, and threw a rope on him--there'd be
some fun, eh, Jim?"

"Shore there would," Jim replied.

On the strength of this I stored up food for future thought and
thus reconciled myself to bidding farewell to the purple canyons
and shaggy slopes of Buckskin Mountain.

At five o'clock next morning we were all stirring. Jones yelled
at the hounds and untangled Kitty's chain. Jim was already busy
with the biscuit dough. Frank shook the frost off the saddles.
Wallace was packing. The merry jangle of bells came from the
forest, and presently Lawson appeared driving in the horses. I
caught my black and saddled him, then realizing we were soon to
part I could not resist giving him a hug.

An hour later we all stood at the head of the trail leading down
into the chasm. The east gleamed rosy red. Powell's Plateau
loomed up in the distance, and under it showed the dark-fringed
dip in the rim called the Saddle. Blue mist floated round the
mesas and domes.

Lawson led the way down the trail. Frank started Old Baldy with
the pack.

"Come," he called, "be oozin' along."

I spoke the last good-by and turned Satan into the narrow trail.
When I looked back Jones stood on the rim with the fresh glow of
dawn shining on his face. The trail was steep, and claimed my
attention and care, but time and time again I gazed back. Jones
waved his hand till a huge jutting cliff walled him from view.
Then I cast my eyes on the rough descent and the wonderful void
beneath me. In my mind lingered a pleasing consciousness of my
last sight of the old plainsman. He fitted the scene; he belonged
there among the silent pines and the yellow crags.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16