his last yelp went down with him into the deep canon.
The head of the bison sank again, and his bloodshot eyes grew filmy; he
was faint and sinking, and he swayed staggeringly to and fro. He gave a
great lurch forward as his faintness grew upon him, and in an instant he
seemed to be all but covered with wolves. They attacked every square
foot of him at the same moment, climbing over each other, yelling,
tearing, and the bison's time had come. The terror and agony stirred all
his remaining life for one last, blinded rush. His instinct was to
"charge" and he made one lumbering plunge. The trail at that point
afterwards but barely passed the wagon-wheels, and there was no room to
spare for the bison's last effort. It bore him heavily, helplessly over
the sickening edge, and half a dozen of clinging coyotes went down with
him. Hundreds of whirling feet the hunters and the hunted-down bison
fell together, to be dashed to pieces upon the rocks at the bottom.

A chorus of howls arose from the remaining wolves, but it did not
express pity or horror. Only for a moment did they seem to be in doubt
as to what was best to be done. After that it was a wolf-race as to
which should first get back to the point at which they could safely
clamber and tumble to the bottom of the pass. Their feast had been
provided for them, and they ate every part of it, buffalo meat and wolf
meat alike, with the help of some buzzards, before Two Arrows or any
other human being entered the canon to disturb them. Then they followed
their prospect of further feasting, and it led them on into the grassy
valley.

The wicked old mule knew nothing of all this. No coyotes annoyed him or
his command, but not a mouthful to eat did they find until they came
out where they could see the ancient ruins. At sight of these, hinting
of human presence, they halted briefly and then sheered away so as not
to approach too nearly so very unpleasant a suggestion. The bisons had
led them well, whether or not the mule got the credit of it. Also, there
was a fair degree of justification of the instinct concerning beaten
paths. New ones may be better, and somebody must hunt them up all the
while, but the old roads will do very well for most people until the new
ones are fairly mapped out. Christopher Columbus had a hard time of it,
and Captain Cook got himself eaten up at last, after finding ever so
many new things.

It was a matter of course that the runaways should feel their