My heavy nailed boots
struck fire from the rocks. My heavy gloves protected my hands as I
slid and hung on and let go. I outfooted the avalanches and wherever I
came to a scaly slope or bank or decayed rock, I leaped down in sheer
delight.
But all too soon my progress was barred; once under the cliff I found
only a gradual slope and many obstacles to go round or surmount. Luck
favored me, for I ran across a runway and keeping to it made better
time. I heard Don long before I tried to see him, and yelled at
intervals to let him know I was coming. A white bank of weathered
stones led down to a clump of cedars from where Don's bay came
spurring me to greater efforts. I flew down this bank, and through an
opening saw the hound standing with fore feet against a cedar. The
branches over him swayed, and I saw an indistinct, tawny form move
downward in the air. Then succeeded the crash and rattle of stones.
Don left the tree and disappeared.
I dashed down, dodged under the cedars, threaded a maze of rocks, to
find myself in a ravine with a bare, water-worn floor. In patches of
sand showed the fresh tracks of Don and the lion. Running down this
dry, clean bed was the easiest going I ever found in the canyon. Every
rod the course jumped in a fall from four to ten feet, often more, and
these I slid down. How I ever kept Don in hearing was a marvel, but
still I did.
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