Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1459
The weight of the animal dragged me forward and, had I not taken a half hitch round a dead 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. He could not see me, but his frantic lunges narrowly missed me.
If never before, Jones then showed his genius. Don had hold of the lion’s flank, and Jones, grabbing the hound by the hind legs, threw him down the slope. Don fell and rolled a hundred feet before he caught himself. Then Jones threw old Moze rolling, and Ranger, and all except faithful Jude. Before they could get back he roped the lion again and made fast to a tree. Then he yelled for me to let go. The lion fell. Jones grabbed the lasso, at the same time calling for me to stop the hounds. As they came bounding up the steep slope, I had to club the noble fellows into submission.
Before the lion recovered wholly from his severe choking, we had his paws bound fast. Then he could only heave his tawny sides, glare and spit at us.
“Now what?” asked Jones. “Emett is watching the second lion, which we fastened by chain and lasso to a swinging branch. I’m all in. My heart won’t stand any more climb.”
“You go to camp for the pack horses,” I said briefly. “Bring them all, and all the packs, and Navvy, too. I’ll help Emett tie up the second lion, and then we’ll pack them both up here to this one. You take the hounds with you.”
“Can you tie up that lion?” asked Jones. “Mind you, he’s loose except for a collar and chain. His claws haven’t been clipped. Besides, it’ll be an awful job to pack those two lions up here.”
“We can try,” I said. “You hustle to camp. Your horse is right up back of here, across the point, if I don’t mistake my bearings.”
Jones, admonishing me again, called the hounds and wearily climbed the slope. I waited until he was out of hearing; then began to retrace my trail down into the canyon. I made the descent in quick time, to find Emett standing guard over the lion. The beast had been tied to an overhanging branch that swung violently with every move he made.
“When I got here,” said Emett, “he was hanging over the side of that rock, almost choked to death. I drove him into this corner between the rocks and the tree, where he has been comparatively quiet. Now, what’s up? Where is Jones? Did you get the third lion?”
I related what had occurred, and then said we were to tie this lion and pack him with the other one up the canyon, to meet Jones and the horses.
“All right,” replied Emett, with a grim laugh. “We’d better get at it. Now I’m some worried about the lion we left below. He ought to be brought up, but we both can’t go. This lion here will kill himself.”
“What will the other one weigh?”
“All of one hundred and fifty pounds.”
“You can’t pack him alone.”
“I’ll try, and I reckon that’s the best plan. Watch this fellow and keep him in the corner.”
Emett left me then, and I began a third long vigil beside a lion. The rest was more than welcome. An hour and a half passed before I heard the sliding of stones below, which told me that Emett was coming. He appeared on the slope almost bent double, carrying the lion, head downward, before him. He could climb only a few steps without lowering his burden and resting.
I ran down to meet him. We secured a stout pole, and slipping this between the lion’s paws, below where they were tied, we managed to carry him fairly well, and after several rests, got him up alongside the other.
“Now to tie that rascal!” exclaimed Emett. “Jones said he was the meanest one he’d tackled, and I believe it. We’ll cut a piece off of each lasso, and unravel them so as to get strings. I wish Jones hadn’t tied the lasso to that swinging branch.”
“I’ll go and untie it.” Acting on this suggestion I climbed the tree and started out on the branch. The lion growled fiercely.
“I’m afraid you’d better stop,” warned Emett. “That branch is bending, and the lion can reach you.”
But despite this I slipped out a couple of yards farther, and had almost gotten to the knotted lasso, when the branch swayed and bent alarmingly. The lion sprang from his corner and crouched under me snarling and spitting, with every indication of leaping.
“Jump! Jump! Jump!” shouted Emett hoarsely.
Billy in Camp
Lion Licking Snowball
I dared not, for I could not jump far enough to get out of the lion’s reach. I raised my legs and began to slide myself back up the branch. The lion leaped, missing me, but scattering the dead twigs. Then the beast, beside himself with fury, half leaped, half stood up, and reached for me. I looked down into his blazing eyes, and open mouth and saw his white fangs.
Everything grew blurred before my eyes. I desperately fought for control over mind and muscle. I heard hoarse roars from Emett. Then I felt a hot, burning pain in my wrist, which stung all my faculties into keen life again.
I saw the lion’s beaked claws fastened in my leather wrist-band. At the same instant Emett dashed under the branch, and grasped the lion’s tail. One powerful lunge of his broad shoulders tore the lion loose and flung him down the slope to the full extent of his lasso. Quick as thought I jumped down, and just in time to prevent Emett from attacking the lion with the heavy pole we had used.
“I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!” roared Emett.
“No you won’t,” I replied, quietly, for my pain had served to soothe my excitement as well as to make me more determined. “We’ll tie up the darned tiger, if he cuts us all to pieces. You know how Jones will give us the laugh if we fail. Here, bind up my wrist.”
Mention of Jones’ probable ridicule and sight of my injury cooled Emett.
“It’s a nasty scratch,” he said, binding my handkerchief round it. “The leather saved your hand from being torn off. He’s an ugly brute, but you’re right, we’ll tie him. Now, let’s each take a lasso and worry him till we get hold of a paw. Then we can stretch him out.”
Jones 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 almost twenty feet in diameter in which he could run and leap at will. It seemed he was in the air all the time. First at Emett, than at me he sprang, mouth agape, eyes wild, claws spread. We whipped him with our nooses, but not one would hold. He always tore it off before we could draw it tight. I secured a precarious hold on one hind paw and straightened my lasso.
“That’s far enough,” cried Emett. “Now hold him tight; don’t lift him off the ground.”
I had backed up the slope. Emett faced the lion, noose ready, waiting for a favorable chance to rope a front paw. The lion crouched low and tense, only his long tail lashing back and forth across my lasso. Emett 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. Emett poked a stick into the lion’s face. All at once I saw the slack in the lasso which was tied to the lion’s chain. Before I could yell to warn my comrade the beast leaped. My rope burned as it tore through my hands. The lion sailed into the air, his paws wide-spread like wings, and one of them struck Emett on the head and rolled him on the slope. I jerked back on my rope only to find it had slipped its hold.
“He slugged me one,” remarked Emett, calmly rising and picking up his hat. “Did he break the skin?”
“No, but he tore your hat band off,” I replied. “Let’s keep at him.”
For a few moments or an hour — no one will ever know how long — we ran round him, raising the dust, scattering the stones, breaking the branches, dodging his onslaughts. He leaped at us to the full length of his tether, sailing right into our faces, a fierce, uncowed, 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 Emett. “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,” shouted Emett, “but don’t get too close. Don’t make him jump.”
While I slowly manoeuvered in front of the lion, Emett slipped behind the rock, lunged for the long tail and got a good hold of it. Then with a whoop he ran around the rock, carrying the kicking, squalling lion clear of the ground.
“Now’s your chance,” he yelled. “Rope a hind foot! I can hold him.”
In a second I had a noose fast on both hind paws, and then passed my rope to Emett. While he held the lion I again climbed the tree, untied the knot that had caused so much trouble, and very shortly we had our obstinate captive stretched out between two trees. After that we took a much needed breathing spell.
“Not very scientific,” growled Emett, by way of apologizing for our crude work, “but we had to get him some way.”
“Emett, do you know I believe Jones put up a job on us?” I said.
“Well, maybe he did. We had the job all right. But we’ll make short work of him now.”
He certainly went at it in a way that alarmed me and would have electrified Jones. While I held the chain Emett muzzled the lion with a stick and a strand of lasso. His big blacksmith’s hands held, twisted and tied with remorseless strength.
“Now for the hardest part of it,” said he, “packing him up.”
We toiled and drudged upward, resting every few yards, wet with sweat, boiling with heat, parching for water. We slipped and fell, got up to slip and fall again. The dust choked us. We senselessly risked our lives on the brinks of precipices. We had no thought save to get the lion up. One hour of unremitting labor saw our task finished, so far. Then we wearily went down for the other.
“This one is the heaviest,” gloomily said Emett.
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. Emett, who had the downward end of the pole, and therefore thrice the weight, whistled when he drew breath. Half the time I saw red mist before my eyes. How I hated the sliding stones!
“Wait,” panted Emett once. “You’re — younger — than me — wait!”
For that Mormon giant — used all his days to strenuous toil, peril and privation — to ask me to wait for him, was a compliment which I valued more than any I had ever received.
At last we dropped our burden in the shade of a cedar where the other lions lay, and we stretched ourselves. A long, sweet rest came abruptly to end with Emett’s next words.
“The lions are choking! They’re dying of thirst! We must have water!”
One glance at the poor, gasping, frothing beasts, proved to me the nature of our extremity.
“Water in this desert! Where will we find it? Oh! why, did I forget my canteen!”
After all our hopes, our efforts, our tragedies, and finally our wonderful good fortune, to lose these beautiful lions for lack of a little water was sickening, maddening.
“Think quick!” cried Emett. “I’m no good; I’m all in. But you must find water. It snowed yesterday. There’s water somewhere.”
Into my mind flashed a picture of the many little pockets beaten by rains into the shelves and promontories of the canyon rim. With the thought I was on the jump. I ran; I climbed; I seemed to have wings; I reached the rim, and hurried along it with eager gaze. I swung down on a cedar branch to a projecting point of rock. Small depressions were everywhere still damp, but the water had evaporated. But I would not give up. I jumped from rock to rock, and climbed over scaly ledges, and set tons of yellow shale into motion. And I found on a ragged promontory many little, round holes, some a foot deep, all full of clear water. Using my handkerchief as a sponge I filled my cap.
Then began my journey down. I carried the cap with both hands and balanced myself like a tight-rope performer. I zigzagged the slopes; slipped over stones; leaped fissures and traversed yellow slides. I safely descended places that in an ordinary moment would have presented insurmountable obstacles, and burst down upon Emett with an Indian yell of triumph.
“Good!” ejaculated he. If I had not known it already, the way his face changed would have told me of his love for animals. 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 the other 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. The savage fellow that had fought us to a standstill, and for which we had named him Spitfire, raised his head, the gold in his beautiful eyes darkened to fire and he growled his return to life and defiance.
Emett and I sank back in unutterable relief.
“Waa-hoo!” Jones’ 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.
Jones surveyed the small level spot in the shade of the cedars. He gazed from the lions to us, his stern face relaxed, and his dry laugh cracked.
“Doggone me, if you didn’t do it!”
CHAPTER XIII
A STRANGE PROCESSION soon emerged from Left Canyon and stranger to us than the lion heads bobbing out of the alfagoes was the sight of Navvy riding in front of the lions. I kept well in the rear, for if anything happened, which I calculated was more than likely, I wanted to see it. Before we had reached the outskirts of pines, I observed that the piece of lasso around Spitfire’s nose had worked loose.
Just as I was about to make this known to Jones, 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 around he wore only an expression of curiosity. But when he saw Spitfire chewing him he uttered a shrill scream and fell sidewise off his horse.
Then two difficulties presented themselves to us, to catch the frightened horse and 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.
Jim was waiting for us, and said he had chased a lion south along the rim till the hounds 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 remove him some distance from the others.
“We have two dog chains,” said Jones, “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, Emett came to our rescue with his inventive and mechanical skill. He took the largest pair of hobbles we had, and with an axe, a knife and Jones’ wire nippers, fashioned two collars with swivels that for strength and serviceableness improved somewhat on those we had bought.
Darkness was enveloping the forest when we finished supper. I fell into my bed and, despite the throbbing and burning of my wrist, soon lapsed into slumber. And I crawled out next morning late for breakfast, stiff, worn out, crippled, but happy. Six lions roaring a concert for me was quite conducive to contentment.
Emett interestingly engaged himself on a new pair of trousers, which he had 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. Jones’ coat was somewhere along the canyon rim, his shoes were full of holes, his shirt in strips, and his trousers in rags. Jim looked like a scarecrow. My clothes, being of heavy waterproofed duck, had stood the hard usage in a manner to bring forth the unanimous admiration of my companions.
“Well, fellows,” said Jones, “there’s six lions, and that’s more than we can pack out of here. Have you had enough hunting? I have.”
“And I,” rejoined Emett.
“Shore you can bet I have,” drawled Jim.
“One more day, boys, and then I’ve done,” said I. “Only one more day!”
Signs of relief on the faces of my good comrades showed how they took this evidence of my satisfied ambition.
I spent all the afternoon with the lions, photographing them, listening to them spit and growl, watching them fight their chains, and roll up like balls of fire. From different parts of the forest I tried to creep unsuspected upon them; but always when I 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. To intimidate me he tried every manner of expression and utterance, and failing, he always ended with a spring in the air to the length of his chain. This means was always effective. I simply could not stand still when he leaped; and in turn I tried every artifice I could think of to make him back away from me, to take refuge behind his tree. I ran at him with a club as if I were going to kill him. He waited, crouching. Finally, in dire extremity, I bethought me of a red flannel hood that Emett had given me, saying I might use it on cold nights. This was indeed a weird, flaming headgear, falling like a cloak down over the shoulders. I put it on, and, camera in hand, started to crawl on all fours toward Spitfire.
Some of Our Menagerie in Buckskin Forest
White Mustang Stallion With his Bunch of Blacks In Snake Gulch
I needed no one to tell me that this proceeding was entirely beyond his comprehension. In his astonishment he forgot to spit and growl, and he backed behind the little pine, from which he regarded me with growing perplexity. Then, having revenged myself on him, and getting a picture, I left him in peace.
