CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

A BATTLE WITH BLOODHOUNDS.

We stood for some moments gathering breath and nerving ourselves for the
desperate struggle. I could not help looking over the precipice. It
was a fearful sight. In a vertical line two hundred feet below, the
stream rushing through the canon broke upon a bed of sharp, jagged
rocks, and then glided on in seething, snow-white foam. There was no
object between the eye and the water; no jutting ledge, not even a tree,
to break the fall--nothing but the spiky boulders below, and the foaming
torrent that washed them.

It was some minutes before our unnatural enemies made their appearance,
but every howl sounded nearer and nearer. Our trail was warm, and we
knew they were scenting it on a run. At length the bushes crackled, and
we could see their white breasts gleaming through the leaves. A few
more springs, and the foremost bloodhound bounded out upon the bank,
and, throwing up his broad jaw, uttered a hideous "growl."

He was at fault where we had entered the water. His comrades now dashed
out of the thicket, and, joining in a chorus of disappointment,
scattered among the stones.

An old dog, scarred and cunning, kept along the bank until he had
reached the top of the canon. This was where we had made our crossing.
Here the hound entered the channel, and, springing from rock to rock,
reached the point where we had dragged ourselves out of the water. A
short yelp announced to his comrades that he had lifted the scent, and
they all threw up their noses and came galloping down.

There was a swift current between two large boulders of basalt. We had
leaped this. The old dog reached it, and stood straining upon the
spring, when Lincoln fired, and the hound, with a short "wough", dropped
in upon his head, and was carried off like a flash.

"Counts one less to pitch over," said the hunter, hastily reloading his
rifle.

Without appearing to notice the strange conduct of their leader, the
others crossed in a string, and, striking the warm trail, came yelling
up the pass. It was a grassy slope, such as is often seen between two
tables of a cliff; and as the dogs strained upward we could see their
white fangs and the red blood that had baited them clotted along their
jaws. Another crack from Lincoln's rifle, and the foremost hound
tumbled back down the gorge.

"Two rubbed out!" cried the hunter; and at the same moment I saw him
fling his rifle to the ground.