Dead cedars were massed in gray tangles, live cedars,
branches touching the ground, grew close together. In this labyrinth
I lost my bearings. I turned and turned, crossed my own back trail,
which in desperation I followed, coming out of the cedars at the deep
and narrow canyon.
Here I fired my revolver. The echo boomed out like the report of heavy
artillery, but no answering shot rewarded me. There was no alternative
save to wander along the canyon and through the cedars until I found
my companions. This I began to do, disgusted with my awkwardness in
losing them. Turning Foxie westward I had scarcely gotten under way
when Don came trotting toward me.
"Hello, old boy!" I called. Don appeared as happy to see me as I was
to see him. He flopped down on the ground; his dripping tongue rolled
as he panted; covered with dust and flecked with light froth he surely
looked to be a tired hound.
"All in, eh Don!" I said dismounting. "Well, we'll rest awhile." Then
I discovered blood on his nose, which I found to have come from a deep
scratch. "A--ah! been pushing a lion too hard this morning? Got your
nose scratched, didn't you? You great, crazy hound, don't you know
some day you'll chase your last lion?"
Don wagged his tail as if to say he knew it all very well. I wet my
handkerchief from my canteen and started to wash the blood and dust
from his nose, when he whined and licked my fingers.
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