“Thirsty?” I asked, sitting down beside him.  Denting the top of my hat I poured in as much water as it would hold and gave him to drink.  Four times he emptied my improvised cup before he was satisfied.  Then with a sigh of relief he lay down again.

The three of us rested there for perhaps half an hour, Don and I sitting quietly on the wall of the canyon, while Foxie browsed on occasional tufts of grass.  During that time the hound never raised his sleek, dark head, which showed conclusively the nature of the silence.  And now that I had company—­as good company as any hunter ever had—­I was once more contented.

Don got up, at length of his own volition and with a wag of his tail set off westward along the rim.  Remounting my mustang I kept as close to Don’s heels as the rough going permitted.  The hound, however, showed no disposition to hurry, and I let him have his way without a word.

We came out in the notch of the great amphitheater or curve we had named the Bay, and I saw again the downward slope, the bold steps, the color and depth below.

I was just about to yell a signal cry when I saw Don, with hair rising stiff, run forward.  He took a dozen jumps, then yelping broke down the steep, yellow and green gorge.  He disappeared before I knew what had happened.

Shortly I found a lion track, freshly made, leading down.  I believed I could follow wherever Don led, so I decided to go after him.  I tied Foxie securely, removed my coat, kicked off spurs and chaps, and remembering past unnecessary toil, fastened a red bandana to the top of a dead snag to show me where to come up on my way out.  Then I carefully strapped my canteen and camera on my back, made doubly secure my revolver, put on my heavy gloves, and started down.  And I realized at once that only so lightly encumbered should I have ever ventured down the slope.

Little benches of rock, grassy on top, with here and there cedar trees, led steeply down for perhaps five hundred feet.  A precipice stopped me.  From it I heard Don baying below, and almost instantly saw the yellow gleam of a lion in a tree-top.

“Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!” I yelled in wild encouragement.

I felt it would be wise to look before I leaped.  The Bay lay under me, a mile wide where it opened into the great slumbering smoky canyon.  All below was chaos of splintered stone and slope, green jumble of cedar, ruined, detached, sliding, standing cliff walls, leaning yellow crags—­an awful hole.  But I could get down, and that was all I cared for.  I ran along to the left, jumping cracks, bounding over the uneven stones with sure, swift feet, and came to where the cliff ended in weathered slope and scaly bench.

It was like a game, going down that canyon.  My heavy nailed boots struck fire from the rocks.  My heavy gloves protected my hands as I slid and hung on and let go.  I outfooted the avalanches and wherever I came to a scaly slope or bank or decayed rock, I leaped down in sheer delight.