I was in a cold sweat when we touched shore, and I jumped long before the boat was properly moored.

  Emmett was wet to the waist where the water had surged over him. As he sat rearranging some tackle I remarked to him that of course he must be a splendid swimmer, or he would not take such risks.

  “No, I can’t swim a stroke,” he replied; “and it wouldn’t be any use if I could. Once in there a man’s a goner.”

  “You’ve had bad accidents here?” I questioned.

  “No, not bad. We only drowned two men last year. You see, we had to tow the boat up the river, and row across, as then we hadn’t the wire. Just above, on this side, the boat hit a stone, and the current washed over her, taking off the team and two men.”

  “Didn’t you attempt to rescue them?” I asked, after waiting a moment.

  “No use. They never came up.”

  “Isn’t the river high now?” I continued, shuddering as I glanced out at the whirling logs and drifts.

  “High, and coming up. If I don’t get the other teams over to-day I’ll wait until she goes down. At this season she rises and lowers every day or so, until June then comes the big flood, and we don’t cross for months.”

  I sat for three hours watching Emmett bring over the rest of his party, which he did without accident, but at the expense of great effort. And all the time in my ears dinned the roar, the boom, the rumble of this singularly rapacious and purposeful river — a river of silt, a red river of dark, sinister meaning, a river with terrible work to perform, a river which never gave up its dead.

  CHAPTER 2.

  THE RANGE

  AFTER A MUCH-NEEDED rest at Emmett’s, we bade good-by to him and his hospitable family, and under the guidance of his man once more took to the wind-swept trail. We pursued a southwesterly course now, following the lead of the craggy red wall that stretched on and on for hundreds of miles into Utah. The desert, smoky and hot, fell away to the left, and in the foreground a dark, irregular line marked the Grand Canyon cutting through the plateau.

  The wind whipped in from the vast, open expanse, and meeting an obstacle in the red wall, turned north and raced past us. Jones’s hat blew off, stood on its rim, and rolled. It kept on rolling, thirty miles an hour, more or less; so fast, at least, that we were a long time catching up to it with a team of horses. Possibly we never would have caught it had not a stone checked its flight. Further manifestation of the power of the desert wind surrounded us on all sides. It had hollowed out huge stones from the cliffs, and tumbled them to the plain below; and then, sweeping sand and gravel low across the desert floor, had cut them deeply, until they rested on slender pedestals, thus sculptoring grotesque and striking monuments to the marvelous persistence of this element of nature.

  Late that afternoon, as we reached the height of the plateau, Jones woke up and shouted: “Ha! there’s Buckskin!”

  Far southward lay a long, black mountain, covered with patches of shining snow. I could follow the zigzag line of the Grand Canyon splitting the desert plateau, and saw it disappear in the haze round the end of the mountain. From this I got my first clear impression of the topography of the country surrounding our objective point. Buckskin mountain ran its blunt end eastward to the Canyon — in fact, formed a hundred miles of the north rim. As it was nine thousand feet high it still held the snow, which had occasioned our lengthy desert ride to get back of the mountain. I could see the long slopes rising out of the desert to meet the timber.

  As we bowled merrily down grade I noticed that we were no longer on stony ground, and that a little scant silvery grass had made its appearance. Then little branches of green, with a blue flower, smiled out of the clayish sand.

  All of a sudden Jones stood up, and let out a wild Comanche yell. I was more startled by the yell than by the great hand he smashed down on my shoulder, and for the moment I was dazed.

  “There! look! look! the buffalo! Hi! Hi! Hi!”

  Below us, a few miles on a rising knoll, a big herd of buffalo shone black in the gold of the evening sun. I had not Jones’s incentive, but I felt enthusiasm born of the wild and beautiful picture, and added my yell to his. The huge, burly leader of the herd lifted his head, and after regarding us for a few moments calmly went on browsing.

  The desert had fringed away into a grand rolling pastureland, walled in by the red cliffs, the slopes of Buckskin, and further isolated by the Canyon. Here was a range of twenty-four hundred square miles without a foot of barb-wire, a pasture fenced in by natural forces, with the splendid feature that the buffalo could browse on the plain in winter, and go up into the cool foothills of Buckskin in summer.

  From another ridge we saw a cabin dotting the rolling plain, and in half an hour we reached it. As we climbed down from the wagon a brown and black dog came dashing out of the cabin, and promptly jumped at Moze. His selection showed poor discrimination, for Moze whipped him before I could separate them. Hearing Jones heartily greeting some one, I turned in his direction, only to be distracted by another dog fight. Don had tackled Moze for the seventh time. Memory rankled in Don, and he needed a lot of whipping, some of which he was getting when I rescued him.

  Next moment I was shaking hands with Frank and Jim, Jones’s ranchmen. At a glance I liked them both. Frank was short and wiry, and had a big, ferocious mustache, the effect of which was softened by his kindly brown eyes. Jim was tall, a little heavier; he had a careless, tidy look; his eyes were searching, and though he appeared a young man, his hair was white.

  “I shore am glad to see you all,” said Jim, in slow, soft, Southern accent.

  “Get down, get down,” was Frank’s welcome — a typically Western one, for we had already gotten down; “an’ come in. You must be worked out. Sure you’ve come a long way.” He was quick of speech, full of nervous energy, and beamed with hospitality.

  The cabin was the rudest kind of log affair, with a huge stone fireplace in one end, deer antlers and coyote skins on the wall, saddles and cowboys’ traps in a corner, a nice, large, promising cupboard, and a table and chairs. Jim threw wood on a smoldering fire, that soon blazed and crackled cheerily.

  I sank down into a chair with a feeling of blessed relief. Ten days of desert ride behind me! Promise of wonderful days before me, with the last of the old plainsmen. No wonder a sweet sense of ease stole over me, or that the fire seemed a live and joyously welcoming thing, or that Jim’s deft maneuvers in preparation of supper roused in me a rapt admiration.

  “Twenty calves this spring!” cried Jones, punching me in my sore side. “Ten thousand dollars worth of calves!”

  He was now altogether a changed man; he looked almost young; his eyes danced, and he rubbed his big hands together while he plied Frank with questions. In strange surroundings — that is, away from his Native Wilds, Jones had been a silent man; it had been almost impossible to get anything out of him. But now I saw that I should come to know the real man. In a very few moments he had talked more than on all the desert trip, and what he said, added to the little I had already learned, put me in possession of some interesting information as to his buffalo.

  Some years before he had conceived the idea of hybridizing buffalo with black Galloway cattle; and with the characteristic determination and energy of the man, he at once set about finding a suitable range. This was difficult, and took years of searching. At last the wild north rim of the Grand Canyon, a section unknown except to a few Indians and mustang hunters, was settled upon. Then the gigantic task of transporting the herd of buffalo by rail from Montana to Salt Lake was begun. The two hundred and ninety miles of desert lying between the home of the Mormons and Buckskin Mountain was an obstacle almost insurmountable. The journey was undertaken and found even more trying than had been expected. Buffalo after buffalo died on the way. Then Frank, Jones’s right-hand man, put into execution a plan he had been thinking of — namely, to travel by night. It succeeded. The buffalo rested in the day and traveled by easy stages by night, with the result that the big herd was transported to the ideal range.

  Here, in an environment strange to their race, but peculiarly adaptable, they thrived and multiplied. The hybrid of the Galloway cow and buffalo proved a great success. Jones called the new species “Cattalo.” The cattalo took the hardiness of the buffalo, and never required artificial food or shelter. He would face the desert storm or blizzard and stand stock still in his tracks until the weather cleared. He became quite domestic, could be easily handled, and grew exceedingly fat on very little provender. The folds of his stomach were so numerous that they digested even the hardest and flintiest of corn. He had fourteen ribs on each side, while domestic cattle had only thirteen; thus he could endure rougher work and longer journeys to water. His fur was so dense and glossy that it equaled that of the unplucked beaver or otter, and was fully as valuable as the buffalo robe. And not to be overlooked by any means was the fact that his meat was delicious.

  Jones had to hear every detail of all that had happened since his absence in the East, and he was particularly inquisitive to learn all about the twenty cattalo calves. He called different buffalo by name; and designated the calves by descriptive terms, such as “Whiteface” and “Crosspatch.” He almost forgot to eat, and kept Frank too busy to get anything into his own mouth. After supper he calmed down.

  “How about your other man — Mr. Wallace, I think you said?” asked Frank.

  “We expected to meet him at Grand Canyon Station, and then at Flagstaff. But he didn’t show up. Either he backed out or missed us. I’m sorry; for when we get up on Buckskin, among the wild horses and cougars, we’ll be likely to need him.”

  “I reckon you’ll need me, as well as Jim,” said Frank dryly, with a twinkle in his eye. “The buffs are in good shape an’ can get along without me for a while.”

  “That’ll be fine. How about cougar sign on the mountain?”

  “Plenty. I’ve got two spotted near Clark Spring. Comin’ over two weeks ago I tracked them in the snow along the trail for miles. We’ll ooze over that way, as it’s goin’ toward the Siwash. The Siwash breaks of the Canyon — there’s the place for lions. I met a wild-horse wrangler not long back, an’ he was tellin’ me about Old Tom an’ the colts he’d killed this winter.”

  Naturally, I here expressed a desire to know more of Old Tom.

  “He’s the biggest cougar ever known of in these parts. His tracks are bigger than a horse’s, an’ have been seen on Buckskin for twelve years. This wrangler — his name is Clark — said he’d turned his saddle horse out to graze near camp, an’ Old Tom sneaked in an’ downed him. The lions over there are sure a bold bunch. Well, why shouldn’t they be? No one ever hunted them. You see, the mountain is hard to get at. But now you’re here, if it’s big cats you want we sure can find them. Only be easy, be easy. You’ve all the time there is. An’ any job on Buckskin will take time. We’ll look the calves over, an’ you must ride the range to harden up. Then we’ll ooze over toward Oak. I expect it’ll be boggy, an’ I hope the snow melts soon.”

  “The snow hadn’t melted on Greenland point,” replied Jones. “We saw that with a glass from the El Tovar. We wanted to cross that way, but Rust said Bright Angel Creek was breast high to a horse, and that creek is the trail.”

  “There’s four feet of snow on Greenland,” said Frank. “It was too early to come that way. There’s only about three months in the year the Canyon can be crossed at Greenland.”

  “I want to get in the snow,” returned Jones. “This bunch of long-eared canines I brought never smelled a lion track. Hounds can’t be trained quick without snow. You’ve got to see what they’re trailing, or you can’t break them.”

  Frank looked dubious. “‘Pears to me we’ll have trouble gettin’ a lion without lion dogs. It takes a long time to break a hound off of deer, once he’s chased them. Buckskin is full of deer, wolves, coyotes, and there’s the wild horses. We couldn’t go a hundred feet without crossin’ trails.”

  “How’s the hound you and Jim fetched in las’ year? Has he got a good nose? Here he is — I like his head. Come here, Bowser — what’s his name?”

  “Jim named him Sounder, because he sure has a voice. It’s great to hear him on a trail. Sounder has a nose that can’t be fooled, an’ he’ll trail anythin’; but I don’t know if he ever got up a lion.”

  Sounder wagged his bushy tail and looked up affectionately at Frank. He had a fine head, great brown eyes, very long ears and curly brownish-black hair. He was not demonstrative, looked rather askance at Jones, and avoided the other dogs.

  “That dog will make a great lion-chaser,” said Jones, decisively, after his study of Sounder. “He and Moze will keep us busy, once they learn we want lions.”

  “I don’t believe any dog-trainer could teach them short of six months,” replied Frank. “Sounder is no spring chicken; an’ that black and dirty white cross between a cayuse an’ a barb-wire fence is an old dog. You can’t teach old dogs new tricks.”

  Jones smiled mysteriously, a smile of conscious superiority, but said nothing.

  “We’ll shore hev a storm to-morrow,” said Jim, relinquishing his pipe long enough to speak. He had been silent, and now his meditative gaze was on the west, through the cabin window, where a dull afterglow faded under the heavy laden clouds of night and left the horizon dark.

  I was very tired when I lay down, but so full of excitement that sleep did not soon visit my eyelids. The talk about buffalo, wild-horse hunters, lions and dogs, the prospect of hard riding and unusual adventure; the vision of Old Tom that had already begun to haunt me, filled my mind with pictures and fancies. The other fellows dropped off to sleep, and quiet reigned. Suddenly a succession of queer, sharp barks came from the plain, close to the cabin. Coyotes were paying us a call, and judging from the chorus of yelps and howls from our dogs, it was not a welcome visit. Above the medley rose one big, deep, full voice that I knew at once belonged to Sounder. Then all was quiet again. Sleep gradually benumbed my senses. Vague phrases dreamily drifted to and fro in my mind: “Jones’s wild range — Old Tom — Sounder — great name — great voice — Sounder! Sounder! Sounder—”

  Next morning I could hardly crawl out of my sleeping-bag. My bones ached, my muscles protested excruciatingly, my lips burned and bled, and the cold I had contracted on the desert clung to me. A good brisk walk round the corrals, and then breakfast, made me feel better.

  “Of course you can ride?” queried Frank.

  My answer was not given from an overwhelming desire to be truthful. Frank frowned a little, as it wondering how a man could have the nerve to start out on a jaunt with Buffalo Jones without being a good horseman. To be unable to stick on the back of a wild mustang, or a cayuse, was an unpardonable sin in Arizona. My frank admission was made relatively, with my mind on what cowboys held as a standard of horsemanship.

  The mount Frank trotted out of the corral for me was a pure white, beautiful mustang, nervous, sensitive, quivering. I watched Frank put on the saddle, and when he called me I did not fail to catch a covert twinkle in his merry brown eyes. Looking away toward Buckskin Mountain, which was coincidentally in the direction of home, I said to myself: “This may be where you get on, but most certainly it is where you get off!”

  Jones was already riding far beyond the corral, as I could see by a cloud of dust; and I set off after him, with the painful consciousness that I must have looked to Frank and Jim much as Central Park equestrians had often looked to me. Frank shouted after me that he would catch up with us out on the range. I was not in any great hurry to overtake Jones, but evidently my horse’s inclinations differed from mine; at any rate, he made the dust fly, and jumped the little sage bushes.

  Jones, who had tarried to inspect one of the pools — formed of running water from the corrals — greeted me as I came up with this cheerful observation.

  “What in thunder did Frank give you that white nag for? The buffalo hate white horses — anything white. They’re liable to stampede off the range, or chase you into the canyon.”

  I replied grimly that, as it was certain something was going to happen, the particular circumstance might as well come off quickly.

  We rode over the rolling plain with a cool, bracing breeze in our faces. The sky was dull and mottled with a beautiful cloud effect that presaged wind. As we trotted along Jones pointed out to me and descanted upon the nutritive value of three different kinds of grass, one of which he called the Buffalo Pea, noteworthy for a beautiful blue blossom. Soon we passed out of sight of the cabin, and could see only the billowy plain, the red tips of the stony wall, and the black-fringed crest of Buckskin. After riding a while we made out some cattle, a few of which were on the range, browsing in the lee of a ridge. No sooner had I marked them than Jones let out another Comanche yell.

  “Wolf!” he yelled; and spurring his big bay, he was off like the wind.

  A single glance showed me several cows running as if bewildered, and near them a big white wolf pulling down a calf. Another white wolf stood not far off. My horse jumped as if he had been shot; and the realization darted upon me that here was where the certain something began. Spot — the mustang had one black spot in his pure white — snorted like I imagined a blooded horse might, under dire insult. Jones’s bay had gotten about a hundred paces the start. I lived to learn that Spot hated to be left behind; moreover, he would not be left behind; he was the swiftest horse on the range, and proud of the distinction. I cast one unmentionable word on the breeze toward the cabin and Frank, then put mind and muscle to the sore task of remaining with Spot. Jones was born on a saddle, and had been taking his meals in a saddle for about sixty-three years, and the bay horse could run. Run is not a felicitous word — he flew. And I was rendered mentally deranged for the moment to see that hundred paces between the bay and Spot materially lessen at every jump. Spot lengthened out, seemed to go down near the ground, and cut the air like a high-geared auto. If I had not heard the fast rhythmic beat of his hoofs, and had not bounced high into the air at every jump, I would have been sure I was riding a bird. I tried to stop him. As well might I have tried to pull in the Lusitania with a thread. Spot was out to overhaul that bay, and in spite of me, he was doing it. The wind rushed into my face and sang in my ears. Jones seemed the nucleus of a sort of haze, and it grew larger and larger. Presently he became clearly defined in my sight; the violent commotion under me subsided; I once more felt the saddle, and then I realized that Spot had been content to stop alongside of Jones, tossing his head and champing his bit.