never seen him, but I've seen his tracks fer
five years. They're larger than any hoss tracks you ever seen. He'll
weigh over three hundred, thet old cougar. Hyar, take a look at my
man's hoss. Look at his back. See them marks? Wal, Old Tom made them,
an' he made them right in camp last fall, when we were down in the
canyon."

The mustang to which Clarke called our attention was a sleek cream and
white pinto. Upon his side and back were long regular scars, some an
inch wide, and bare of hair.

"How on earth did he get rid of the cougar?" asked Jones.

"I don't know. Perhaps he got scared of the dogs. It took thet pinto a
year to git well. Old Tom is a real lion. He'll kill a full-grown hoss
when he wants, but a yearlin' colt is his especial likin'. You're sure
to run acrost his trail, an' you'll never miss it. Wal, if I find any
cougar sign down in the canyon, I'll build two fires so as to let you
know. Though no hunter, I'm tolerably acquainted with the varmints. The
deer an' hosses are rangin' the forest slopes now, an' I think the
cougars come up over the rim rock at night an' go back in the mornin'.
Anyway, if your dogs can follow the trails, you've got sport, an'
more'n sport comin' to you. But take it from me--don't try to rope Old
Tom."

After all our disappointments in the beginning of the expedition, our
hardship on the desert, our trials with the dogs and horses, it was
real pleasure to make permanent camp with wood, water and feed at hand,
a soul-stirring, ever-changing picture before us, and the certainty
that we were in the wild lairs of the lions--among the Lords of the
Crags!

While we were unpacking, every now and then I would straighten up and
gaze out beyond. I knew the outlook was magnificent and sublime beyond
words, but as yet I had not begun to understand it. The great pine
trees, growing to the very edge of the rim, received their full quota
of appreciation from me, as did the smooth, flower-decked aisles
leading back into the forest.

The location we selected for camp was a large glade, fifty paces or
more from the precipice far enough, the cowboys averred, to keep our
traps from being sucked down by some of the whirlpool winds, native to
the spot. In the center of this glade stood a huge gnarled and blasted
old pine, that certainly by virtue of hoary locks and bent shoulders
had earned the right to stand aloof from his younger companions. Under
this tree we placed all our belongings, and