More and louder roars and yells, hoarser howls and sharper wrestling, snapping sounds told me what was going on while I tried to subdue Moze.  I had a grim thought that I would just as lief have had hold of the lioness.  The hound presently stopped his plunging which gave me an opportunity to look about.  The little space was smoky with a smoke of dust.  I saw the lioness stretched out with one lasso around a bush and another around a cedar with the end in the hands of Jim.  He looked as if he had dug up the ground.  While he tied this lasso securely Jones proceeded to rope the dangerous front paws.

The hounds quieted down and I took advantage of this absence of tumult to get rid of Moze.

“Pretty lively,” said Jones, spitting gravel as I walked up.  Sand and dust lay thick in his beard and blackened his face.  “I tell you she made us root.”

Either the lioness had been much weakened or choked, or Jones had unusual luck, for we muzzled her and tied up her paws in short order.

“Where’s Ranger?” I asked suddenly, missing him from the panting hounds.

“I grabbed him by the heels when he tackled the lion, and I gave him a sling somewheres,” replied Jim.

Ranger put in an appearance then under the cedars limping painfully.

“Jim, darn me, if I don’t believe you pitched him over the precipice!” said Jones.

Examination proved this surmise to be correct.  We saw where Ranger had slipped over a twenty-foot wall.  If he had gone over just under the cedar where the depth was much greater he would never have come back.

“The hounds are choking with dust and heat,” I said.  When I poured just a little water from my canteen into the crown of my hat, the hounds began fighting around and over me and spilled the water.

“Behave, you coyotes!” I yelled.  Either they were insulted or fully realized the exigency of the situation, for each one came up and gratefully lapped every drop of his portion.

“Shore, now comes the hell of it,” said Jim appearing with a long pole.  “Packin’ the critter out.”

An argument arose in regard to the best way up the slope, and by virtue of a majority we decided to try the direction Jim and I thought best.  My companions led the way, carrying the lioness suspended on the pole.  I brought up the rear, packing my rifle, camera, lasso, canteen and a chain.

It was killing work.  We had to rest every few steps.  Often we would fall.  Jim laughed, Jones swore, and I groaned.  Sometimes I had to drop my things to help my companions.  So we toiled wearily up the loose, steep way.

“What’s she shakin’ like that for?” asked Jim suddenly.

Jones let down his end of the pole and turned quickly.  Little tremors quivered over the lissome body of the lioness.

“She’s dying,” cried Jim, jerking out the stick between her teeth and slipping off the wire muzzle.

Her mouth opened and her frothy tongue lolled out.  Jones pointed to her quivering sides and then raised her eyelids.  We saw the eyes already glazing, solemnly fixed.