“Isn’t there any way to catch Wings?” inquired Ken.

  “I reckon we’ll never git a bridle on him agin. But we might round up the band, an’ catch a couple of mustangs. What do you say to takin’ the trail of them mustangs?”

  Ken and Hal yelled their desire for that, and it seemed to suit Jim pretty well. And I was like him, rather pleased to undertake whatever pleased the brothers.

  “What’ll I ride?” asked Hal, suddenly.

  “You an’ Navvy can both saddle a pack-hoss,” replied Hiram.

  “You shore ain’t goin’ to take the Injun?” inquired Jim.

  “Wal, I reckon so. He’s a Navajo, ain’t he? An’ while I don’t like to hurt your Texas feelin’s, Jim, thar never was the white feller on earth thet could hold a candle to a Navajo when it comes to hosses.”

  “Shore, you’re right,” declared Jim, with wonderful good nature.

  “An’ fellers,” went on Hiram, “stuff some biscuits in your pockets, an’ throw a blanket on your hoss before saddlin’. Mebbe we won’t git back to-night. Ken, give the hounds a good feed, an’ see they’re tied proper. It’ll be a rest for them, an’ they need it.”

  “Shall I take my rifle?” asked Ken.

  “Wal, you’d better. Thar’s no tellin’ what we’ll strike down thar in the brakes. It’s my idee them mustangs will take to thet wide plateau down below, lookin’ fer rich browse. An’ thet’s jest what I’d like to see. Down thar we’d hey a chance to corner them, an’ if they go up in Buckskin thar won’t be no use trackin’ them.”

  The hounds howled dismally as we rode away from camp, and the last time I turned I saw Prince standing up the length of his chain and wild to go with us. In a hollow perhaps a half-mile from camp Navvy picked up the mustang trail, and he followed it through the forest without getting off his horse.

  “Boys, can you see tracks?” I asked Ken and Hal.

  Ken laughed his inability, and Hal said: “Nix.”

  “Wal, I can’t see any myself,” added Hiram.

  It was remarkable how the Navajo trailed that band of mustangs over the soft pine-needle mats. Try as I might I could not see the slightest sign of a track. However, when we got to the dusty trail at the head of the Saddle, tracks were exceedingly plain to us. We rode down in single file and were glad to find the mustangs had turned to the left toward the plateau that Hiram had called the brakes. We passed the spring and Hiram’s camp, where I had brought the boys to meet him, and then went on past the gulch where we had come down.

  Before us spread a plateau a thousand feet under the great rim-wall above. It widened and widened till the walls of rock were ten miles apart, and the end of this wild brake was fully thirty miles away. It was an exceedingly wild and rough place. The horses had to go slowly. Scrub-oak only breast-high, and as thick as a hedge, and as spiked as a barbed-wire fence, made progress tedious and painful.

  “Ken, you’d hardly think you were down in the Cañon, would you?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to know what to think down in this awful hole. Where are we, anyhow?”

  “There’s no name for this bench that I ever heard. It’s only a line on the maps. We’ve just got beyond the end of Powell’s Plateau. Buckskin, of course, rises on our right. To the left the real Cañon deepens, and straight ahead — that yellow rim with the black border — is what they call Siwatts. It’s spur of the mountain.”

  The outlook from where we rode was level only at a distance. As we went on we were continually riding up and down ridges, heading cañons and gullies, and crossing brooks. We jumped deer and foxes and coyotes out of every brake. The scrub-oak gave way to manzanita — a red-barked, green-leaved species of brush that was almost impenetrable. And when we did get through that it was to enter a cedar forest where the ground was red and bare and soft. The mustang tracks were now plain to the eye and quite fresh. Other tracks were of great variety. Hiram halted us all round an enormous cougar track. The marks had evidently been made some time before, and during wet weather. The cougar was so heavy he had sunk in half a foot, and his track was bigger around than that of any horse we had.

  “I reckon he’s the captain,” remarked Hiram.

  Ken dismounted once to pick up some arrowheads. One was a perfect point, over six inches long, of dark blue flint, and sharp as a blade.

  “Thet’s pretty old, youngster,” said Hiram. “The Navajos used to come here for their buckskin. Thet’s why the mountain was called Buckskin.”

  Hal fired at a coyote, and the sleepy pack-horse he rode woke and nearly left the boy hanging on the spikes of a cedar.

  “Hyar!” called Hiram. “Don’t shoot fer nothin’, Hal. We don’t want to scare the mustangs.”

  The trail led across the cedar forest, out into open ground again, and began to go down, bench by bench, step by step.

  It was hot down there. But presently the sun was hidden behind storm-clouds and the air grew cooler. I heard Jim grumbling that he never trailed any horses that did not stop to graze. And Hiram replied that this particular band evidently was making for some especial place. Presently we came out upon the edge of a step with another step some hundreds of feet below. The scene was so rugged and beautiful and wonderful that I had to look many times before I made any special note of ground near at hand. But finally I saw a triangular promontory, perhaps a mile or more in length on each side, and this was green with rich grass and willow except out on the extreme point, where it was bare and white. Deep cañons bounded this promontory on three sides.

  “Git back out of sight,” said Hiram. “If the mustangs are down thar we don’t want them to see us.”

  We all dismounted and led our horses back into a clump of cedars.

  “We’ll wait hyar an’ let Navajo go look thet place over,” added Hiram.

  The Indian understood without being told, and he stole off among the jumbles of rocks. Hal was the other one who did not rest, and he got on the trail of some animal and went off among the cedars toward a seamed and cracked cliff. We heard him throwing stones, and presently he yelled for Ken.

  “Youngster, hurry up an’ sit on thet thar kid, or he’ll spoil our mustang hunt,” said Hiram.

  Navvy returned and announced that he had seen the mustangs browsing. Then Hiram went off with him to get sight of the band and the lay of the ground. Meanwhile the sky grew darker and darker, and there was a cool touch of rain or snow in the air. Hiram was gone nearly an hour, and in that time Jim and I saw or heard nothing of the boys.

  “It’s goin’ to snow,” said Hiram. “An’ we’ve got to throw a camp quick. Say, them mustangs are down War on Wet kite-shaped shelf, an’ dog-gone me if thar ain’t only one trail leadin’ down. An’ it’s narrer an’ steep. We can drive them an’ ketch all we can handle. Whar are the youngsters?”

  “Shore we don’t know. They’re chasin’ some-thin’ shore’s you’re born,” said Jim.

  “Who fetched an axe?” asked Hiram.

  I was never caught out without my small hand-axe, and with this we set about cutting cedar branches and brush to make shelters. A big black cloud swooped down on us, bringing a flurry of snow. At that juncture Ken and Hal stalked into camp, each carrying a struggling, snapping little fox. Both boys were bleeding from bites or cuts which they minded not at all.

  “Been ropin’ foxes, eh?” asked Hiram. “Wal, let ’em go an’ pitch in hyar an’ help. We’ve got the mustangs rounded up, an’ with good weather we’ll hey more fun an’ hard work than you youngsters hey seen yet.”

  It was noticeable that Ken released his capture, while Hal tied his to a cedar with a cord. Both lads lent their aid, and it was not long before we had a big lean-to on the windward side. It was not finished any too soon, for the snow began to fall. A snowstorm like this one was as bad as rain, and as good as rain, too, for it was heavy, thick, and wet. When the storm passed six inches of snow lay upon everything. The sun still hid behind clouds, but the air was warm and the snow melted fast.

  “Fellars, it’s gittin’ late, anyhow,” said Hiram. “An’ we couldn’t do much in this snow. We’ll wait till to-morrer. I’ll fence up thet narrer trail so the mustangs can’t give us the slip.”

  We lounged around our camp, made a meal on biscuits and snowballs, and rolled in our blankets to sleep soundly. Hiram awakened us early. We ate what little we had left, and, as the sun rose red and warm, we were eager to begin the day’s adventure.

  “Let’s all take a look at the mustangs,” suggested Hiram.

  There were patches of snow left in shady places, and the ground was soft and soggy. We followed Hiram out of the cedars, thorough brush and round huge boulders, and finally crawled to a point on the edge of the bluff.

  “Look at thet! Jest look!” whispered Hiram, hoarsely.

  The bare promontory glistened in the morning sunlight, and right in the middle of it was the band of wild mustangs. There were whites and blacks and bays.

  “There’s Wings!” burst out Hal.

  “S-s-sh. Not so loud thar,” said Hiram. “What are they doing?” asked Ken, in eager interest.

  “The snow’s melted, an’ they’re drinkin’ out of the little pockets in the rock.”

  “Well! — it’s great!” replied Ken.

  I shared his delight. To my mind there could not have been a more beautiful sight than the mustangs drinking on that promontory. The mustangs looked wild. They were shaggy. Long manes waved in the breeze. The leader of the band, a fine, keen-looking white, stood on guard. His attitude showed pride as well as suspicion. He held his head up and he was looking our way. Beyond the promontory yawned the blue shadow of an abyss, and beyond that lifted a bold red bluff, and farther on loomed a great dome. And all around to left and right were the ragged ridges of rock and the dark clefts between the cliffs. It was a wild background for these wild rangers of the wilderness.

  “Thet white feller’s winded us, I do believe,” said Hiram. “Wal, I reckon it doesn’t make no difference to us. He can’t git out.”

  “Hiram, may I take a picture of that bunch?” asked Ken.

  “Shore. But you must go down through the crack in the rocks thar, an’ then crawl as close as you can.”

  Ken slipped away, and soon returned to us, enthusiastic over his picture and more than enthusiastic over the beauty of some of the mustangs.

  “Why, Hal, my mustang is nowhere for looks. And Wings — he’s like a dub compared to some of the ponies in that band.”

  “Wal, it ain’t goin’ to be an all-fired job to ketch a couple of mustangs,” said Hiram. “But what’ll we do with them?”

  “Shore, let’s wait till we ketch some,” replied Jim, wisely.

  “Hiram, we can turn them over to the Indian,” I suggested.

  “Thet’s so. He’ll drag them up on the plateau, an’ break them for us.”

  “How are we going to catch them?” I asked.

  “Dick, we’ve got a place made to order. You all can hide behind an’ above thet crack whar the trail comes up. I’ll go down an’ drive the mustangs up, an’ you fellers can rope ’em as they come out.”

  “Shore it’ll be lively round here,” chuckled Jim.

  “Youngsters, you’d better both lay for Wings an’ rope him,” said Hiram. “Jim an’ Dick can each rope a mustang. Thet’ll be enough, won’t it?”

  “I want to rope one for myself,” replied Hal. “I don’t care whether we get Wings or not.”

  “I’d like to pick one out, too,” added Ken.

  “Wal, I’m sure I don’t keer if you rope half a dozen. Every man for hisself, then. Only, youngsters, I’d advise you to put on your gloves, an’ tighten your belts, an’ git ready for a warm time. It’ll be easy to drop a noose over a mustang’s head, but holdin’ him mebbe’ll be another story. Git your lassoes ready, now.”

  Jim and the brothers took up a position on the side of the gully where we expected the mustangs to come up, and Navvy and I took ours on the opposite side. Hiram rattled down over the stones of the trail, with a last word to the boys to make ready for some real sport.

  As I had asked for the loan of Wings from my friend in Kanab, it fell to me as a duty to catch the mustang if I could. We waited for quite a while, and excitement began to verge on strain when we heard Hiram’s stentorian yell. Following that was a sound like low thunder, then a sharp clattering, and then the clear ringing of hard hoofs on stone.

  “Shore they’re comin’,” called Jim.

  I had expected to see the mustangs run out of that crack in single file. But they burst out, it seemed, three or four abreast, in a cloud of dust and a thundering din. I saw Jim’s noose whip over a mustang’s head. Then the dusty air appeared full of flying lassoes. The mustangs ran their heads right into the loops. I watched for Wings, but did not see him. In a twinkling the band had cleared the crack and were half across the cedar bench. I heard a confusion of yells and pounding hoofs and crashings in the brush. But I could not see for dust, and had to run to one side out of the thick cloud.

  Jim had a white mustang down, and Navvy had a bay well under control. Then I saw Ken. In an instant he was actually dodging the plunges of a vicious pinto. Ken had roped one of the band, but now he did not know what to do, except hold on. That he was doing valiantly at the risk of his life. The pinto reared and, like a furious deer, struck with his fore hoofs. Ken dodged and ran to the extent of his rope and hauled away with all his strength. His quarry began to leap and pull and drag Ken through the brush.

  “Hold hard thar, youngster,” yelled Hiram. He came running out of the crack in the rocks and quickly laid his powerful grasp on Ken’s rope.

  “Where’s Hal?” I yelled. No one heard me. All were too busy. I turned this way and that. Finally, way off on the bench, at least a hundred yards, I saw a mustang jumping and shaking his head. Then I saw a tight lasso round his neck. I did not wait to see Hal, but started to run with all my might. The mustang, a beautiful slate color with white tail and mane, kept plunging through the brush, and I knew he was dragging Hal. Then I saw the boy. He was down, but trying to get up, and holding to the lasso as if he would die before he let go.

  “Hang on, Hal,” I cried. “He’s a beauty. You’ve got a prize. Hang on!”

  Hal regained his feet. The mustang renewed his fight for freedom. And then began a race. He dragged Hal so fast for a little while I scarcely gained at all. But Hal tripped and fell, and as he would not give up, of course, his weight held the mustang back. I gained ground, reached Hal, and grasped the tight lasso. One jerk sent that savage mustang to his knees and took away some of his breath and fire. He thrashed about and wrestled a few more moments, and then squared away, fore hoofs braced, and, refusing to budge, watched me with wild eyes. Promptly I tied the lasso to a stout bush. Again he began to rear and jump, and as the rope did not give an inch he choked himself pretty thoroughly, and at length fell flat. I hurried up and loosened the noose and tied a knot that would not slip.

  “He’s ours — Hal; where are you?” I yelled.

  It was a sorry-looking lad I found half sitting up in the brush. Dust-covered, scratched and bloody, with his clothes in tatters, Hal Ward was a sight.

  “I’m all right except my wrists. They’re all skinned from the rope,” he said. “Gee! What a pony! Say, Dick, is he hurt? He breathes so hard.”

  “He’s just winded and scared. We’ll leave him here till we find out what to do with him. Let’s go back.”

  We returned to camp, where Hal was greeted with solicitude, and then, when it became known that he had not been hurt, there was uproarious mirth at his appearance.

  “I don’t care. I got the blue-ribbon winner of that bunch,” retorted Hal.

  So indeed it turned out. Hal’s mustang was a beauty, one and all agreeing that he was about the wildest and raciest and most beautiful little horse we had ever seen.

  “Wal, I ‘ain’t noticed thet any of you ketched Wings,” said Hiram.

  For that matter not one of us had even seen the mustang. Hiram said that it was rather strange, and he went back down to the promontory. Upon his return he told us that Wings was down there and could be readily caught.

  “He turned back, I reckon,” went on Hiram. “An’ now, fellers, let’s figure things. We’ve had a right smart bit of luck. But we can’t take all these wild mustangs up on the plateau with us. Let’s put them down on thet bench, an’ close up this crack so they’ll be corralled. Then we can git them on our way back to Kanab.”

  That appeared to be a wise solution to our problem for the present. Wild mustangs are apt to be white elephants on hunters’ hands. So, while Hiram and Jim went down to catch Wings, the Navajo half led and half dragged our captured mustangs down through the crack to the promontory.

  “I reckoned,” said Hiram, upon his return with Wings, “thet it’d be best to leave the lassoes trailin’ on the mustangs. We don’t run much risk of one chokin’. An’ we can ketch them easy when we come back. Now to build thet corral gate. Everybody rustle for big branches of cedar.”

  An hour of hard work saw the task completed, and it gave us much satisfaction. Then we mounted and took our own backtrail toward the Saddle and the plateau camp.

  CHAPTER XVI - SPLIT TRAILS

  WHEN WE TROOPED out of the pines next morning, the sun, rising gloriously bright, had already taken off the keen edge of the frosty air. The ridges glistened in their white dress, and the bunches of sage and the cedars, tipped with snow, were like trees laden with blossoms.

  We rode swiftly to the mouth of Left Cañon, into which Jim had trailed three lions. On the way the snow, as we had expected, began to thin out, and it failed altogether under the cedars, though there was enough on the branches to give us a drenching.

  Jim reined in on the verge of a narrow gorge, and told us that a lion’s cave was below. Hiram looked the ground over and said Jim had better take the hounds down while the rest of us waited above, ready for whatever might happen.

  Jim went down on foot, calling the hounds and holding them close. We listened eagerly for his call or the outbreak of the pack, but there was no sound. In less than half an hour he came climbing out, with the information that the lions had left the cave, probably the evening after he had chased them there.