upper
walls and the purple shades of the lower darkened silently.

VI

"Shore we can't set here all night," said Jim. "Let's skin the lion
an' feed the hounds."

The most astonishing thing in our eventful day was the amount of meat
stowed away by the dogs. Lion flesh appealed to their appetites. If
hungry Moze had an ounce of meat, he had ten pounds. It seemed a good
opportunity to see how much the old gladiator could eat; and Jim and I
cut chunks of meat as fast as possible. Moze gulped them with absolute
unconcern of such a thing as mastication. At length he reached his
limit, possibly for the first time in his life, and looking longingly
at a juicy red strip Jim held out, he refused it with manifest shame.
Then he wobbled and fell down.

We called to him as we started to climb the slope, but he did not
come. Then the business of conquering that ascent of sliding stone
absorbed all our faculties and strength. Little headway could we have
made had it not been for the brush. We toiled up a few feet only to
slide back and so it went on until we were weary of life.

When one by one we at last gained the rim and sat there to recover
breath, the sun was a half globe of fire burning over the western
ramparts. A red sunset bathed the canyon in crimson, painting the
walls, tinting the shadows to resemble dropping mists of blood. It was
beautiful and enthralling to my eyes, but I turned away because it
wore the mantle of tragedy.

Dispirited and worn out, we trooped into camp to find Emett and a
steaming supper. Between bites the three of us related the story of
the red lioness. Emett whistled long and low and then expressed his
regret in no light terms.

"Roping wild steers and mustangs is play to this work," he said in
conclusion.

I was too tired to tease our captive lions that evening; even the
glowing camp-fire tempted me in vain, and I crawled into my bed with
eyes already glued shut.

A heavy weight on my feet stirred me from oblivion. At first, when
only half awake, I could not realize what had fallen on my bed, then
hearing a deep groan I knew Moze had come back. I was dropping off
again when a strange, low sound caused my eyes to open wide. The black
night had faded to the gray of dawn. The sound I recognized at once
to be the Navajo's morning chant. I lay there and listened. Soft and
monotonous, wild and swelling, but always low and strange, the savage
song to the break of day was exquisitely beautiful