"Well, maybe he did. We had the job all right. But we'll make short
work of him now."
He certainly went at it in a way that alarmed me and would have
electrified Jones. While I held the chain Emett muzzled the lion
with a stick and a strand of lasso. His big blacksmith's hands held,
twisted and tied with remorseless strength.
"Now for the hardest part of it," said he, "packing him up."
We toiled and drudged upward, resting every few yards, wet with sweat,
boiling with heat, parching for water. We slipped and fell, got up to
slip and fall again. The dust choked us. We senselessly risked our
lives on the brinks of precipices. We had no thought save to get the
lion up. One hour of unremitting labor saw our task finished, so far.
Then we wearily went down for the other.
"This one is the heaviest," gloomily said Emett.
We had to climb partly sidewise with the pole in the hollow of our
elbows. The lion dragged head downward, catching in the brush and
on the stones. Our rests became more frequent. Emett, who had the
downward end of the pole, and therefore thrice the weight, whistled
when he drew breath. Half the time I saw red mist before my eyes. How
I hated the sliding stones!
"Wait," panted Emett once. "You're--younger--than me--wait!"
For that Mormon giant--used all his days to strenuous toil, peril and
privation--to ask me to wait for him, was a compliment which I valued
more than any I had ever received.
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