I reached down to my feet and groped in the dark for Moze.  Finding him, I gave him a shake.  The old gladiator groaned, stirred, and came out of what must have been dreams of hunting meat.  He slapped his tail against my bed.  As luck would have it, just then the wind abated to a soft moan, and clear and sharp came the bay of a hound.  Moze heard it, for he stopped wagging his tail, his body grew tense under my hand, and he vented his low, deep grumble.

I lay there undecided.  To wake my companions was hardly to be considered, and to venture off into the forest alone, where old Sultan might be scouting, was not exactly to my taste.  And trying to think what to do, and listening for the bay of the pup, and hearing mostly the lions growling and the wind roaring, I fell asleep.

“Hey! are you ever going to get up?” some one yelled into my drowsy brain.  I roused and opened my eyes.  The yellow, flickering shadows on the wall of my tent told me that the sun had long risen.  I found my companions finishing breakfast.  The first thing I did was to look over the dogs.  Shep, the black-and-white pup, was missing.

“Where’s Shep?” I asked.

“Shore, I ain’t seen him this mornin’,” replied Jim.

Thereupon I told what I had heard during the night.

“Everybody listen,” said Jones.

We quieted down and sat like statues.  A gentle, cool breeze, barely moving the pine tips, had succeeded the night wind.  The sound of horses munching their oats, and an occasional clink, rattle, and growl from the lions did not drown the faint but unmistakable yelps of a pup.

“South, toward the canyon,” said Jim, as Jones got up.

“Now, it’d be funny if that little Shep, just to get even with me for tying him up so often, has treed a lion all by himself,” commented Jones.  “And I’ll bet that’s just what he’s done.”

He called the hounds about him and hurried westward through the forest.

“Shore, it might be.”  Jim shook his head knowingly.  “I reckon it’s only a rabbit, but anythin’ might happen in this place.”

I finished breakfast and went into my tent for something—­I forget what, for wild yells from Emett and Jim brought me flying out again.

“Listen to that!” cried Jim, pointing west.

The hounds had opened up; their full, wild chorus floated clearly on the breeze, and above it Jones’ stentorian yell signaled us.

“Shore, the old man can yell,” continued Jim.  “Grab your lassos an’ hump yourselves.  I’ve got the collar an’ chain.”

“Come on, Navvy,” shouted Emett.  He grasped the Indian’s wrist and started to run, jerking Navvy into the air at every jump.  I caught up my camera and followed.  We crossed two shallow hollows, and then saw the hounds and Jones among the pines not far ahead.

In my excitement I outran my companions and dashed into an open glade.  First I saw Jones waving his long arms; next the dogs, noses upward, and Don actually standing on his hind legs; then a dead pine with a well-known tawny shape outlined against the blue sky.