“Shore it’ll stop snowin’ soon,” said Jim.

The falling snow had thinned out and looked like flying powder; the leaden clouds, rolling close to the tree-tops, grew brighter and brighter; bits of azure sky shone through rifts.

Navvy had tramped off to find the horses, and not long after his departure he sent out a prolonged yell that echoed through the forest.

“Something’s up,” said Emett instantly.  “An Indian never yells like that at a horse.”

[Illustration:  A lion tied]

[Illustration:  Fighting WEETAHS (buffalo bulls) on buffalo JONES’S desert ranch]

We waited quietly for a moment, expecting to hear the yell repeated.  It was not, though we soon heard the jangle of bells, which told us he had the horses coming.  He appeared off to the right, riding Foxie and racing the others toward camp.

“Cougie—­mucha big—­dam!” he said leaping off the mustang to confront us.

“Emett, does he mean he saw a cougar or a track?” questioned Jones.

“Me savvy,” replied the Indian. “Butteen, butteen!”

“He says, trail—­trail,” put in Emett.  “I guess I’d better go and see.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Jones.  “Jim, keep the hounds tight and hurry with the horses’ oats.”

We followed the tracks of the horses which lead southwest toward the rim, and a quarter of a mile from camp we crossed a lion trail running at right angles with our direction.

“Old Sultan!” I cried, breathlessly, recognizing that the tracks had been made by a giant lion we had named Sultan.  They were huge, round, and deep, and with my spread hand I could not reach across one of them.

Without a word, Jones strode off on the trail.  It headed east and after a short distance turned toward camp.  I suppose Jones knew what the lion had been about, but to Emett and me it was mystifying.  Two hundred yards from camp we came to a fallen pine, the body of which was easily six feet high.  On the side of this log, almost on top, were two enormous lion tracks, imprinted in the mantle of snow.  From here the trail led off northeast.

“Darn me!” ejaculated Jones.  “The big critter came right into camp; he scented our lions, and raised up on this log to look over.”

Wheeling, he started for camp on the trot.  Emett and I kept even with him.  Words were superfluous.  We knew what was coming.  A made—­to—­order lion trail could not have equalled the one right in the back yard of our camp.

“Saddle up!” said Jones, with the sharp inflection of words that had come to thrill me.  “Jim, Old Sultan has taken a look at us since break of day.”

I got into my chaps, rammed my little automatic into its saddle holster and mounted.  Foxie seemed to want to go.  The hounds came out of their sheds and yawned, looking at us knowingly.  Emett spoke a word to the Navajo, and then we were trotting down through the forest.  The sun had broken out warm, causing water to drip off the snow laden pines.  The three of us rode close behind Jones, who spoke low and sternly to the hounds.