The lion evidently had no further intention of taking to a tree. From
the size of his track I concluded he was old and I feared every moment
to hear the sounds of a fight. Jones had said that nearly always in
the case of one hound chasing an old lion, the lion would lie in wait
for him and kill him. And I was afraid for Don.
Down, down, down, we went, till the yellow rim above seemed a thin
band of gold. I saw that we were almost to the canyon proper, and
I wondered what would happen when we reached it. The dark shaded
watercourse suddenly shot out into bright light and ended in a deep
cove, with perpendicular walls fifty feet high. I could see where
a few rods farther on this cove opened into a huge, airy, colored
canyon.
I called the hound, wondering if he had gone to the right or left of
the cove. His bay answered me coming from the cedars far to the right.
I turned with all the speed left in me, for I felt the chase nearing
an end. Tracks of hound and lion once more showed in the dust. The
slope was steep and stones I sent rolling cracked down below. Soon I
had a cliff above me and had to go slow and cautiously. A misstep or
slide would have precipitated me into the cove.
Almost before I knew what I was about, I stood gasping on the gigantic
second wall of the canyon, with nothing but thin air under me, except,
far below, faint and indistinct purple clefts, red ridges, dotted
slopes, running down to merge in a dark, winding strip of water,
that was the Rio Colorado.
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