by Zane Grey
Ken was now practically alone with his two treed lions, and I knew that no hunter was ever so delighted. He had entirely recovered from his first panicky feeling. I sat there in the sun watching him. He stood on the slope, just under the edge of the piñon branches, and he had a long club in his hand. The situation was so singular that I could have laughed, but for the peril. The idea of Ken keeping those big cougars treed with a club was almost too ridiculous to consider, yet all the same it was true. For a long time the cougars were quiet, listening. However, as the baying of the hounds diminished in volume and occurrence, and then ceased altogether, Ken’s quarry became restless. It was then that he began to bark like a dog, whereupon the lions grew quiet once more.
“That’s the way, Ken. You’re the best hound in the pack. You’ve got a fine bark there. Keep it up,” I shouted.
As long as Ken barked or bayed or yelped the cougars remained comparatively quiet. Ken, however, began to weaken in voice and finally lost it.
“Dick, you’ll have to bark some,” he said, and I could scarcely hear him.
At that I willingly began to imitate Prince and Ringer and Mux-Mux. It was easy at first, but soon it became a task. I bayed for an hour. My voice grew hoarser and hoarser, and finally failed in my throat. In order to get out a few bays I had to rest for a moment. Soon I was compelled to stop. The cougars immediately grew restless and then active.
“Ken, you’ve got to do something,” I called, in strained, weak tones.
The lower lion hissed and spat and growled at Ken, and made many attempts to start down. Ken frustrated these by hitting the cougar with stones. Every time Ken threw he struck his mark. Even this punishment, however, did not long intimidate the beast, and he grew bolder and bolder. At length he made a more determined effort, and stepped from branch to branch.
Ken dashed down the incline with a stone in one hand and a long club in the other. I tried to shout advice, but I doubt if Ken heard. He aimed deliberately at the lion, threw the stone and hit him squarely in the ribs. That brought a roar which raised my hair. Then directly under him Ken wielded his club, pounding on the tree, thrashing at the branches.
“Go back! go back!” yelled Ken. “Don’t you dare come down! I’ll crack your old head.”
The cougar came almost within reach of Ken’s club. I wondered at the way the boy held his post. Many as were the daring achievements Ken Ward had executed before my eyes, this one eclipsed them all. I was chilled with fear. I was in distress because I could not raise my hand to help him.
Ken must have been in an unreasoning frenzy. He ran round the piñon, keeping directly under the cougar, and intercepting him at every turn. More than once the beast crouched as if to spring, and was only deterred from that by Ken’s savage attacks. Finally he had luck enough to give the cougar a ringing blow on the head. This, for the moment, stopped the descent, for the big cat climbed back to his perch beside his mate.
In the momentary lull of battle I heard the faint yelp of a hound.
“Listen, Ken!” I cried.
I listened, too. It came again, faint but clearer. I looked up at the lions. They, too, heard, for they were very still. I saw their heads raised and tense. I backed a little way up the slope. Then the faint yelp floated up again in the dead, strange silence. I saw the lions quiver, and it seemed as if I heard their hearts thump. The yelp was wafted up again, closer this time. I recognized it; it belonged to Prince. The great hound was on the backtrail of the other lion, coming to Ken’s rescue.
“It’s Prince! It’s Prince! It’s Prince!” I cried. “It’s all up now!”
What feelings stirred me then! Gladness and relief for Ken dominated me. Pity for those lions I felt also. Big, tawny, cruel fellows as they were, they shivered with fright. Their sides trembled. But pity did not hold me long; Prince’s yelp, now growing clear and sharp, brought back the savage instinct of the hunter.
A full-toned bay attracted my attention from the lions to the downward slope. I saw a yellow form moving under the trees and climbing fast. It was Prince.
“Hi! Hi! old boy!” I yelled.
Up he came like a shot and sprang against the piñon, his deep bay ringing defiance to the lions.
It was very comfortable, but I felt it necessary to sit down just then.
CHAPTER XVII
STRENUOUS WORK
“Come down now, you cougars,” yelled Ken, defiantly shaking his broken club. “I dare you now. Old Prince is here. You can’t catch that hound, and you can’t get away from him.”
Ken had evidently contracted Hiram’s habit of talking to cougars as if they were human.
“Oh, Ken Ward, it was tough on you,” I said, “and tough on me, too. But we’re all right now.”
Moments passed. I was just on the point of deciding to go down to hurry up our comrades, when I heard the other hounds coming. Yelp on yelp, bay on bay, made welcome music to my ears. Then a black-and-yellow, swiftly flying string of hounds bore into sight down the slope, streamed up and circled the piñon.
Hiram, who at last showed his tall, stooping form on the steep of the ascent, seemed as long in coming as the hounds had been swift.
“Did you get the lion? Where’s Jim?” I asked, in eagerness.
“Lion tied—all fast,” replied the panting Hiram. “Left Jim—to guard—him.”
“What are we to do now?” asked Ken.
“Wait—till I git—my breath. We can’t git both lions—out of one tree.”
“All right,” Ken replied, after a moment’s thought. “I’ll tie Curley and Mux. You go up the tree. That first lion will jump sure; he’s almost ready now. The other hounds will tree him again pretty soon. If he runs up the canyon, well and good.”.
“Wal, thet’s a good idee,” said Hiram. “Hyar, Leslie, what’re you doin’ over thar?”
“I couldn’t get across,” I replied.
“Hey you been thar all the time, leavin’ the youngster hyar alone with these critters?”
“Hiram, it couldn’t be helped. I was unable to do a blamed thing. But Ken made a grand job of it. Wait till I can tell you.”
“Wal, dog-gone me!” exclaimed the old hunter. He pounded Ken with his big hand, then he began coiling his rope. “Ken, you go ahead and tie up Curley and Mux. You, Leslie, git ready to run up the canyon an’ keep track of this cougar thet’s goin’ to jump.”
He began the ascent of the piñon. The branches were not too close, affording him easy climbing. Before he looked for even a move on the part of the lions, the lower one began stepping down. Ken yelled a warning, but Hiram did not have time to take advantage of it. He had half turned, meaning to swing out and drop, when the lion planted both fore paws upon his back. Hiram went sprawling down, with the lion almost on him.
Prince had his teeth in the lion before he touched the ground, and when he did strike the rest of the hounds were on him. A cloud of dust rolled down the slope. The lion broke loose and with great, springy bounds ran up the canyon, Prince and his followers hot-footing it after him.
Mux and Curley broke the dead sapling to which Ken had tied them, and dragging it behind them, endeavored in frenzied action to join the chase. Ken drew them back, loosening the rope, so in case the other lion jumped he could free them quickly.
Hiram calmly gathered himself up, rearranged his lasso, took his long stick and proceeded to mount the piñon again. I waited till I saw him slip the noose over the lion’s head, then I ran up the slope. I passed perilously near the precipice and then began to climb. The baying of the hounds directed me. In the box of yellow walls the chorus seemed to come from a hundred dogs.
When I found them, close to a low cliff, baying the lion in a thick dark piñon, Ringer leaped into my arms, and next Prince stood up against me with his paws on my shoulders. These were strange actions, and though I marked it at the moment, I had ceased to wonder at our hounds. I took one look at the lion in the dark shade, and then climbed to the low cliff and sat down. I called Prince to me an
d held him. In case our quarry leaped upon the cliff I wanted a hound to put quickly on his trail.
Another hour passed. It must have been a dark hour for the lion—he looked as if it were—and one of impatience for the baying hounds, but for me it was an hour of enjoyment. Alone with the hounds and a lion, walled in by wild-colored cliffs, with the dry sweet smell of cedar and piñon, I asked no more, only that I wished Ken had been there.
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 canyon. 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 canyon. 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.
