calves this spring!” cried Jones, punching me in my sore side. “Ten thousand dollars worth of calves!”
He was now altogether a changed man; he looked almost young; his eyes danced, and he rubbed his big hands together while he plied Frank with questions. In strange surroundings—that is, away from his Native Wilds, Jones had been a silent man; it had been almost impossible to get anything out of him. But now I saw that I should come to know the real man. In a very few moments he had talked more than on all the desert trip, and what he said, added to the little I had already learned, put me in possession of some interesting information as to his buffalo.
Some years before he had conceived the idea of hybridizing buffalo with black Galloway cattle; and with the characteristic determination and energy of the man, he at once set about finding a suitable range. This was difficult, and took years of searching. At last the wild north rim of the Grand Canyon, a section unknown except to a few Indians and mustang hunters, was settled upon. Then the gigantic task of transporting the herd of buffalo by rail from Montana to Salt Lake was begun. The two hundred and ninety miles of desert lying between the home of the Mormons and Buckskin Mountain was an obstacle almost insurmountable. The journey was undertaken and found even more trying than had been expected. Buffalo after buffalo died on the way. Then Frank, Jones’s right-hand man, put into execution a plan he had been thinking of—namely, to travel by night. It succeeded. The buffalo rested in the day and traveled by easy stages by night, with the result that the big herd was transported to the ideal range.
Here, in an environment strange to their race, but peculiarly adaptable, they thrived and multiplied. The hybrid of the Galloway cow and buffalo proved a great success. Jones called the new species “Cattalo.” The cattalo took the hardiness of the buffalo, and never required artificial food or shelter. He would face the desert storm or blizzard and stand stock still in his tracks until the weather cleared. He became quite domestic, could be easily handled, and grew exceedingly fat on very little provender. The folds of his stomach were so numerous that they digested even the hardest and flintiest of corn. He had fourteen ribs on each side, while domestic cattle had only thirteen; thus he could endure rougher work and longer journeys to water. His fur was so dense and glossy that it equaled that of the unplucked beaver or otter, and was fully as valuable as the buffalo robe. And not to be overlooked by any means was the fact that his meat was delicious.
Jones had to hear every detail of all that had happened since his absence in the East, and he was particularly inquisitive to learn all about the twenty cattalo calves. He called different buffalo by name; and designated the calves by descriptive terms, such as “Whiteface” and “Crosspatch.” He almost forgot to eat, and kept Frank too busy to get anything into his own mouth. After supper he calmed down.
“How about your other man—Mr. Wallace, I think you said?” asked Frank.
“We expected to meet him at Grand Canyon Station, and then at Flagstaff. But he didn’t show up. Either he backed out or missed us. I’m sorry; for when we get up on Buckskin, among the wild horses and cougars, we’ll be likely to need him.”
“I reckon you’ll need me, as well as Jim,” said Frank dryly, with a twinkle in his eye. “The buffs are in good shape an’ can get along without me for a while.”
“That’ll be fine. How about cougar sign on the mountain?”
“Plenty. I’ve got two spotted near Clark Spring. Comin’ over two weeks ago I tracked them in the snow along the trail for miles. We’ll ooze over that way, as it’s goin’ toward the Siwash. The Siwash breaks of the Canyon—there’s the place for lions. I met a wild-horse wrangler not long back, an’ he was tellin’ me about Old Tom an’ the colts he’d killed this winter.”
Naturally, I here expressed a desire to know more of Old Tom.
“He’s the biggest cougar ever known of in these parts. His tracks are bigger than a horse’s, an’ have been seen on Buckskin for twelve years. This wrangler—his name is Clark—said he’d turned his saddle horse out to graze near camp, an’ Old Tom sneaked in an’ downed him. The lions over there are sure a bold bunch. Well, why shouldn’t they be? No one ever hunted them. You see, the mountain is hard to get at. But now you’re here, if it’s big cats you want we sure can find them. Only be easy, be easy. You’ve all the time there is. An’ any job on Buckskin will take time. We’ll look the calves over, an’ you must ride the range to harden up. Then we’ll ooze over toward Oak. I expect it’ll be boggy, an’ I hope the snow melts soon.”
“The snow hadn’t melted on Greenland point,” replied Jones. “We saw that with a glass from the El Tovar. We wanted to cross that way, but Rust said Bright Angel Creek was breast high to a horse, and that creek is the trail.”
“There’s four feet of snow on Greenland,” said Frank. “It was too early to come that way. There’s only about three months in the year the Canyon can be crossed at Greenland.”
“I want to get in the snow,” returned Jones. “This bunch of long-eared canines I brought never smelled a lion track. Hounds can’t be trained quick without snow. You’ve got to see what they’re trailing, or you can’t break them.”
Frank looked dubious. “’Pears to me we’ll have trouble gettin’ a lion without lion dogs. It takes a long time to break a hound off of deer, once he’s chased them. Buckskin is full of deer, wolves, coyotes, and there’s the wild horses. We couldn’t go a hundred feet without crossin’ trails.”
“How’s the hound you and Jim fetched in las’ year? Has he got a good nose? Here he is—I like his head. Come here, Bowser—what’s his name?”
“Jim named him Sounder, because he sure has a voice. It’s great to hear him on a trail. Sounder has a nose that can’t be fooled, an’ he’ll trail anythin’; but I don’t know if he ever got up a lion.”
Sounder wagged his bushy tail and looked up affectionately at Frank. He had a fine head, great brown eyes, very long ears and curly brownish-black hair. He was not demonstrative, looked rather askance at Jones, and avoided the other dogs.
“That dog will make a great lion-chaser,” said Jones, decisively, after his study of Sounder. “He and Moze will keep us busy, once they learn we want lions.”
“I don’t believe any dog-trainer could teach them short of six months,” replied Frank. “Sounder is no spring chicken; an’ that black and dirty white cross between a cayuse an’ a barb-wire fence is an old dog. You can’t teach old dogs new tricks.”
Jones smiled mysteriously, a smile of conscious superiority, but said nothing.
“We’ll shore hev a storm tomorrow,” said Jim, relinquishing his pipe long enough to speak. He had been silent, and now his meditative gaze was on the west, through the cabin window, where a dull afterglow faded under the heavy laden clouds of night and left the horizon dark.
I was very tired when I lay down, but so full of excitement that sleep did not soon visit my eyelids. The talk about buffalo, wild-horse hunters, lions and dogs, the prospect of hard riding and unusual adventure; the vision of Old Tom that had already begun to haunt me, filled my mind with pictures and fancies. The other fellows dropped off to sleep, and quiet reigned. Suddenly a succession of queer, sharp barks came from the plain, close to the cabin. Coyotes were paying us a call, and judging from the chorus of yelps and howls from our dogs, it was not a welcome visit. Above the medley rose one big, deep, full voice that I knew at once belonged to Sounder. Then all was quiet again. Sleep gradually benumbed my senses. Vague phrases dreamily drifted to and fro in my mind: “Jones’s wild range—Old Tom—Sounder—great name—great voice—Sounder!
