Jones had brought a packsaddle and two panniers.

[Illustration:  Buckskin forest]

[Illustration:  Buffalo Jones with sounder and ranger]

When Emett essayed to lead the horse which carried these, the animal stood straight up and began to show some of his primal desert instincts.  It certainly was good luck that we unbuckled the packsaddle straps before he left the vicinity.  In about three jumps he had separated himself from the panniers, which were then placed upon the back of another horse.  This one, a fine looking beast, and amiable under surroundings where his life and health were considered even a little, immediately disclaimed any intention of entering the forest.

“They scent the lions,” said Jones.  “I was afraid of it; never had but one nag that would pack lions.”

“Maybe we can’t pack them at all,” replied Emett dubiously.  “It’s certainly new to me.”

“We’ve got to,” Jones asserted; “try the sorrel.”

For the first time in a serviceable and honorable life, according to Emett, the sorrel broke his halter and kicked like a plantation mule.

“It’s a matter of fright.  Try the stallion.  He doesn’t look afraid,” said Jones, who never knew when he was beaten.

Emett gazed at Jones as if he had not heard right.

“Go ahead, try the stallion.  I like the way he looks.”

No wonder!  The big stallion looked a king of horses—­just what he would have been if Emett had not taken him, when a colt, from his wild desert brothers.  He scented the lions, and he held his proud head up, his ears erect, and his large, dark eyes shone fiery and expressive.

“I’ll try to lead him in and let him see the lions.  We can’t fool him,” said Emett.

Marc showed no hesitation, nor anything we expected.  He stood stiff-legged, and looked as if he wanted to fight.

“He’s all right; he’ll pack them,” declared Jones.

The packsaddle being strapped on and the panniers hooked to the horns, Jones and Jim lifted Tom and shoved him down into the left pannier while Emett held the horse.  A madder lion than Tom never lived.  It was cruel enough to be lassoed and disgrace enough to be “hog-tied,” as Jim called it, but to be thrust down into a bag and packed on a horse was adding insult to injury.  Tom frothed at the mouth and seemed like a fizzing torpedo about to explode.  The lioness being considerably longer and larger, was with difficulty gotten into the other pannier, and her head and paws hung out.  Both lions kept growling and snarling.

“I look to see Marc bolt over the rim,” said Emett, resignedly, as Jones took up the end of the rope halter.

“No siree!” sang out that worthy.  “He’s helping us out; he’s proud to show up the other nags.”

Jones was always asserting strange traits in animals, and giving them intelligence and reason.  As to that, many incidents coming under my observation while with him, and seen with his eyes, made me incline to his claims, the fruit of a lifetime with animals.