 PREVATORY NOTE OF THE LAST PLANESMAN Buffalo Jones needs no introduction to American sportsmen. But to those of my readers who are unequated with him, a few words may not be amiss. He was born sixty-two years ago on the Illinois Prairie, and he has devoted practically all of his life to the pursuit of wild animals. It has been a pursuit which owed its unflagging energy an indomitable purpose to a singular passion, almost an obsession, to capture life, not to kill. He has caught and broken the will of every well-known wild beast native to western North America. Killing was repulsive to him. He even disliked the sight of a sporting rifle, though for years necessity compelled him to earn his livelihood by supplying the meat of Buffalo to the caravans crossing the plains. At last seeing that the extinction of the noble beast was inevitable, he smashed his rifle, wore a wagon-wheel, and vowed to save the species. For ten years he labored, pursuing, capturing, and taming Buffalo, for which the West gave him fame and the name Preserver of the American Bison. A civilization encroached upon the plains Buffalo Jones ranged slowly westward and, to-day, an isolated desert-bound plateau on the north rim of the Grand Canyon of Arizona is his home. There his Buffalo browsed with the Mustang and deer, and ours free as ever they were on the rolling plains. In the spring of 1907 I was the fortunate companion of the old plainsmen on a trip across the desert, and a hunt in that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canyons and giant pines. I want to tell you about it. I want to show the color and beauty of those painted cliffs and the long, brown-matted blue-bell dotted aisles in the grand forest. I want to give a suggestion of the tang of the dry, cool air, and particularly I want to throw a little light upon the life and nature of that strange character and remarkable man, Buffalo Jones. Happily in remembrance the writer can live over his experiences and see once more the moon-blanched silver mountain peaks against the dark blue sky. Hear the lonely sound of the night wind through the pines, feel a dance of the wild expectation in the quivering pulse, the stir, the thrill, the joy of hard action in perilous moments, the mystery of man's yearning for the unattainable. As a boy I read of bone with a throbbing heart and the silent moccasin vengeful wenzel I loved. I poured over the deeds of later men, Custer and Carson, those heroes of the plains, and as a man I came to see the wonder, the tragedy of their lives, and to write about them. It has been my destiny, what a happy fulfillment of my dreams of border spirit, to live for a while in the fast-fading wild environment which produced these great men with the last of the great plainsmen. Zane Gray End of Prefatory Note Chapter 1 of The Last Plainsmen The Arizona Desert One afternoon, far out on the sun-baked wastes of sage, we made camp near a clump of withered pinion trees. The cold desert wind came down upon us with a sudden darkness. Even the Mormons who were finding the trail for us across the drifting sands forgot to sing and pray at sundown. We huddled around the campfire, attired in silent little group, when out of the lonely melancholy night some wandering Navajos stole like shadows to our fire. We hailed their advent with delight. They were good-natured Indians, willing to barter a blanket or bracelet, and one of them a tall-got fellow, with the bearing of a chief, could speak a little English. Oh! said he in a deep chest voice. Hello, not a cunny! greeted Jim Emmet, the Mormon guide. Oh! answered the Indian. Big pale face, Buffalo Jones, big chief, Buffalo Man, introduced Emmet, indicating Jones. Oh! the Navajos spoke with dignity and extended a friendly hand. Jones, big white chief, wrote Buffalo, tie up tight! continued Emmet, making motions with his arm as if he were whirling a lasso. No big heap, small Buffalo, said the Indian, holding his hand level with his knee and smiling broadly. Jones, erect, rugged, brawny, stood in the full light of the campfire. He had a dark bronze inscrutable face, a stern mouth and square jaw, keen eyes, half closed from years of searching the wide plains and deep furrows wrinkling his cheeks. A strange stillness enfolded his features, the tranquility earned from a long life of adventure. He held up both muscular hands to the Navajo and spread out his fingers. Rope Buffalo, heap, big Buffalo, heap, many one son. The Indians straightened up but kept his friendly smile. Me, big chief, went on Jones, me go far north, land of little sticks, Naza, Naza, rope Muscott, rope White Manitou, of great slaves, Naza, Naza. Naza, replied the Navajo, pointing to the North Star. No, no. Yes, me big pale face, me come long way towards setting sun, go cross big water, go buck skin, see wise chase Cougar. The Cougar or mountain lion is a Navajo God and the Navajos hold him in as much fear and reverence as do the great slave Indians, the Muscox. No kill Cougar, continued Jones as the Indians' bold features hardened. Run Cougar horseback, run long way, dogs chase Cougar long time, chase Cougar up tree, me big chief, me climb tree, climb high up lasso Cougar rope, Cougar tie Cougar all tight. Navajo's solemn face relaxed. White man, he fun, no? Yes, cried Jones, extending his great arms. Me strong, me rope Cougar, me tie Cougar, right off wigwam, keep Cougar alive. No, replied the savage vehemently. Yes, protested Jones, nodding earnestly. No, answered the Navajo louder, raising his dark head. Yes, shouted Jones, big lie, the Indian thundered. Jones joined good-naturedly in the laugh at his expense. The Indian had crudely voiced a skepticism. I had heard more delicately hinted in New York, and singly enough, which had strengthened on our way west. As we met ranchers, prospectors, and cowboys. But those few men I had fortunately met who really knew Jones more than overbalanced the doubt and ridicule cast upon him. I recalled a scarred old veteran of the plains who had talked to me in true western bluntness. Say, young fella, I hear you couldn't get across the canyon for the deep snow on the North Rim. Well, you're lucky. Now you're hit the trail for New York and keep going. Don't ever tackle the desert, especially with them Mormons. They've got water on the brain worse than religion. It's 250 miles from Flagstaff to Jones Range. And only two drinks on the trail? I know there's here Buffalo Jones. I knowed him way back in the 70s when he was doing them roping stunts that made him famous as the preserver of the American bison. I know about that crazy trip of hisen to the barren lands after Muscox. And I reckon I can guess what he'll do over there in the sea-wash. He'll rope cougars, sure he will, and watch them jump. Jones would rope the devil and time down if the lass who didn't burn. Oh, he's hell on roping things. And he's worse than hell on men and horses and dogs. All that my well-meaning friend suggested made me, of course, only the more eager to go with Jones. Where I had once been interested in the old Buffalo hunter, I was now fascinated. And now I was with him in the desert and seeing him as he was, a simple, quiet man who fitted the mountains and the silences and the long reaches of distance. It does seem hard to believe all this about Jones, remarked Judd, one of Emmett's men. How could a man have the strength and a nerve? And isn't it cruel to keep wild animals in captivity? Isn't it against God's word? Quick as speech could flow, Jones quoted. And God said, let us make man in our image and give him dominion over the fish of the sea, the fowls of the air, over the cattle, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. Dominion, over all the beasts of the field, repeated Jones, his big voice rolling out. He clenched his huge fist and spread wide his long arms. Dominion, that was God's word. The power and intensity of him could be felt. Then he relaxed, dropped his arm, and once more grew calm. But he had shown a glimpse of the great strange and absorbing passion of his life. Once he had told me how, when a mere child, he had hazarded limb and neck to capture a fox squirrel, how he had held on to the vicious little animal, though it bit his hand through, how he had never learned to play the games of boyhood that when the youth of the little Illinois village would play, he roamed the prairies of the rolling wooded hills or watched to go for whole. That boy was father of the man, for sixty years and enduring passion for dominion over wild animals had possessed him, and made his life an endless pursuit. Our guests in Navajos departed early and vanished silently in the gloom of the desert. We settled down again into a quiet that was broken only by the low, chant-like song of the praying Mormon. Suddenly the hounds bristled, and old Moe's, a surly and aggressive dog, frozen barked at some real or imaginary desert prowler, a sharp command from Jones made Moe's crunch down, and the other hounds cowered close together. Better tie up the dogs, suggested Jones, like a knot coyotes run down here from the hills. The hounds were my a special delight, but Jones regarded them with considerable contempt. When all was said, this was no small wonder, for that quintet of long-neared canines would have tried the patience of a saint. Old Moe's was a Missouri hound that Jones had procured in that state of uncertain qualities, and the dog had grown old over coon trails. He was black and white, grizzled and battle-scarred, and if ever a dog had an evil eye, Moe's was that dog. He had a way of wagging his tail and indeterminate, equivocal sort of wag, as if he realized his ugliness and knew he stood little chance of making friends, but was still hopeful and willing. As for me, the first time he manifested this evidence of a good heart under a rough coat, you want me forever. To tell of Moe's dereliction, up to that time would take more space than would a history of the whole trip, but the enumeration of several incidents will at once stamp him as a dog of character, and will establish the fact that even if his pro-generators had never taken any blue ribbons, they had at least bequeathed him fighting blood. At Flagstaff, we chained him in the yard of a livery stable. Next morning, we found him hanging by his chain on the other side of an eight-foot fence. We took him down, expecting to have the sorrowful duty of burying him, but Moe's shook himself, wagged his tail, and then pitched into the livery stable dog. As a matter of fact, fighting was his forte. He whipped all the dogs in Flagstaff, and when our bloodhounds came on from California, he put three of them, or decombat at once, and subdued the pup with a savage growl. His crowning-feet, however, made even the historical Jones open his mouth in a maze. We'd taken Moe's to El Tavar at the Grand Canyon and finding it impossible to get over to the North Rim. We left him with one of Jones's men called Rust, who was working on the canyon trail. Rust's instructions were to bring Moe's to Flagstaff in two weeks. He brought the dog a little ahead of time, and roared his appreciation of the relief it was to get the responsibility off his hands. And he related many strange things, most striking of which was how Moe's had broken his chain and plunged into the raging Colorado River and tried to swim it just above the terrible Stockdrag Rackbids. Rust and his fellow workmen watched the dog disappear in the yellow, wrestling, turbulent world of waters and had heard his knell in the booming roar of the falls. Nothing but a fish could live in that current. Nothing but a bird could scale those perpendicular marble walls. That night, however, when the men crossed to the tramway, Moe's met them with a wag of his tail. He had crossed the river and he had come back. To the four reddish-brown big-framed bloodhounds, I had given the names of Don, Tige, Jude, and Ranger, and by the dinner persuasion had succeeded in establishing some kind of family relation between them and Moe's. This night I tied up the bloodhounds after bathing and saving their sore feet, and I left Moe's free, for he grew fretful and surly under restraint. The Mormon's prone, dark-blanket figures lay on the sand. Jones was crawling into his bed. I walked a little away from the dying fire and faced the north, where the desert stretched mysterious and illumerable. How Solomon still it was! I drew in a great breath of the cold air and thrilled with a nameless sensation. Something was there, away to the northward. It called me from out of the dark and gloom. I was going to meet it. I lay down to sleep with the great blue expanse open to my eyes. The stars were very large and wonderfully bright, yet they seemed so much further off than I had ever seen them. The wind softly sifted the sand. I harkened to the tinkle of the cowbells on the hobbled horses. The last thing I remembered was old Moe's creeping close to my side, seeking the warmth of my body. When I awakened, a long pale line showed out of the dun-colored clouds in the east. It slowly lengthened and tinged to red. Then the morning broke and the slopes of snow on the San Francisco peaks behind us glowed a delicate pink. The Mormons were up and doing with the dawn. They were stalwart men, brother silent and all workers. It was interesting to see them pack for the day's journey. They traveled with wagons and mules in the most primitive way, which Jones assured me was exactly as their fathers had crossed the plains fifty years before on a trail to Utah. All morning we made good time and as we descended into the desert the air became warmer, the scrubby cedar growth began to fail and the bunches of sage were few and far between. I turned off into gaze back at the San Francisco peaks. The snow-capped tips glistened and grew higher and stood out in startling relief. Someone said they could be seen two hundred miles across the desert and were landmark and a fascination to all travelers thitherward. I never raised my eyes to the north that I did not draw my breath quickly and grow chill with awe and bewilderment with the marvel of the desert. The scaly red ground descended gradually, bare red knolls like waves, rolled away northward, black buttes, roared their flat heads, long ranges of sand flowed between them like streams and all sloped away to merge into gray shadowy obscurity into wild and desolate, dreamy and misty nothingness. Do you see those white sand dunes there? More to the left, ask Emmett. The little Colorado runs in there. How far does it look to you? 30 miles, perhaps, I replied, adding 10 miles to my estimate. It's 75. We'll get there day after tomorrow. If the snow in the mountains has begun to melt, we'll have a time getting across. That afternoon a hot wind blew in my face, carrying a fine sand that cut and blinded, filled my throat, sending me to the water-cask till I was ashamed. When I fell under my bed at night, I never turned. The next day was hotter. The wind blew harder. The sand stung sharper. About noon the following day the horses winnied and the mules roused out of their tardy gait. They smelled water, said Emmett, and despite the heat and sand in my nostrils I smelled it too. The dog's poor foot sore fellows trotted it on a head down the trail. A few more miles of hot sand and gravel and redstone brought us around a low messa to the little Colorado. It was a wide stream of swiftly running, reddish muddy water. In a channel cut by floods, little streams trickled and meandered in all directions. The main part of the river ran in close to the bank we were on. The dogs lowled in the water, the horses and mules tried to run in, but were restrained. The men drank and bathed their faces. According to my flank staff advisor, this was one of the two drinks I would get on the desert. So I veiled myself heartily of the opportunity. The water was full of sand, but cold and gratefully thirst quenching. The little Colorado seemed no more to me than a shallow creek. I heard nothing sullen or menacing in its musical floral. Doesn't look bad, eh? Poor Emmett, who read my thought. You'd be surprised to learn how many men Indians, horses, sheep and wagons are buried under that quick sand. The secret was out, and I wondered no more. At once the stream and wet bars of sand took on a different color. I removed my boots and waded out to a little bar. The sand seemed quite firm, but water oozed out around my feet. And when I stepped, the whole bar shook like jelly. I pushed my foot through the crust and the cold wet sand took hold and tried to suck me down. How can you ford this stream with horses, I ask, Emmett? He must take our chances, replied he. We'll hitch two teams to one wagon and run the horses. I ford it here at worse stages than this. Once a team got stuck and I had to leave it. Another time the water was high and washed me downstream. Emmett sent his son into the stream on a mule. The rider lashed his mount and plunging, splashing, crossed at a pace near a gallop. He returned in the same manner and reported one bad place near the other side. Jones and I had gone on the first wagon and tried to coax up the dogs, but they would not come. Emmett had to lash the four horses to start them and the other Mormons, riding alongside, yelled at them and used their whips. The wagons bowled into the water with a tremendous splash. We were wet through before we had gone 20 feet. The plunging horses were lost in yellow spray. The stream rushed through the wheels. The Mormons yelled. I wanted to see but was lost in a veil of yellow mist. Jones yelled in my ear, but I could not hear what he said. Once the wagon wheel struck a stone or log almost lurching us overboard, a muddy splash behind me. I cried out in my excitement and punched Jones in the back. Next moment, the keen acceleration of the ride gave way to horror. We seemed to drag and almost stop. Someone roared, horse down. One instant of painful suspense in which imagination pictured another tragedy added to the record of this deceitful river. A moment filled with intense feeling and sensation of splash and yell and fury of action, then the three able horses dragged their comrade out of the quicksand. He regained his feet and plunged on. Spurred by fear, the horses increased their efforts and amid clouds of spray galloped the remaining distance to the other side. Jones looked disgusted. Like all planesmen, he hated water. Emmett and his men calmly unhitched. No trace of alarm or even of excitement showed in their bronzed faces. We made it fine and easy, remarked Emmett. So I sat down and wondered what Jones and Emmett and these men would consider really hazardous. I began to have a feeling that I would find out. That experience for me was, but in its infancy, that far across the desert, that something which had called me would show hard, keen, perilous life. And I began to think of reserve powers of fortitude and endurance. Feather wagons were brought across without mishap, but the dogs did not come with him. Jones called and called, the dogs howled and howled. Finally I waited out over the wet bars and little streams to appoint several hundred yards nearer the dogs. Moes was lying down, but the others were whining and howling in a state of great pertribution. I called and called, they answered and even ran into the water, but did not start across. Hey, Moes, hey you Indian. I yelled, losing my patience. You've already swum the big Colorado and this is only a brook, come on. This appeal evidently touched Moes because he barked and plunged in. He made the water fly and when carried off his feet, rested the current with energy and power. He made sure almost even with me and wagged his tail. Not to be outdone, Jude, Tig and Don followed suit and first one and then another was swept off his feet and carried downstream. They landed below me. This left Ranger the pup, a lawn on the other side, of all the pitiful yelps ever uttered by a frightened and lonely puppy. His was the most forlorn I had ever heard. Time after time he plunged in with many bitter howls of distress went back. I kept calling and at last hoping to make him come by a show of indifference, I started away. This broke his heart. Putting up his head he let out a long melancholy wail which for ought I knew might have been a prayer. And then consigned himself to the yell current. Ranger swam like a boy learning. He seemed to be afraid to get wet. His forefeet were continually plowing the air in front of his nose. When he struck the swift place, he went downstream like a flash. But still kept swimming valiantly. I tried to follow along the sandbar but found it impossible. I encouraged him by yelling. He drifted far below, stranded on an island, crossed it and plunged in again to make sure almost out of my sight. And then at last I got to dry sand. There was Ranger wet and disheveled, but consciously proud and happy. After lunch we entered upon the 70 mile stretch from the little to the big Colorado. Imagination had pictured the desert for me as a vast sandy plain flat and monotonous. Reality showed me desolate mountains gleaming bare in the sun, long lines of red bluffs, white sand dunes and hills of blue clay, areas of level ground. In all, a many-hued, boundless world in itself, wonderful and beautiful, fading all around in the purple haze of deceiving distance. Then clear, sweet dry, the desert air carried a linger. A dreaminess, tidings of far-off things and an enthralling promise. The fragrance of flowers, the beauty and grace of women, the sweetness of music, the mystery of life all seemed to float on that promise. It was the air breathed by the lotus-eaters when they dreamed and wandered no more. Beyond the little Colorado we began to climb again, the sand was thick, the horses labored, the drivers shielded their faces, the dogs began to limp and lag. Ranger had to be taken into a wagon in. Then one by one, all of the other dogs except Moes, he refused to ride and trotted along with his head down. Far into the front, the pink cliffs, the ragged messes and the dark volcanic spurs of the big Colorado stood up and beckoned us onward. But they were a far hundred miles across the shifting sands and baked clay and ragged rocks. Always in the rear was the San Francisco peaks, cold and pure, dartingly clear and close in the rare atmosphere. We camped near another water-hole, located in a deep yellow-colored gorge, crumbling to pieces a ruin of rock and silent as the grave. In the bottom of the canyon was a pool of water, covered with green scum. My thirst was effectively quenched by the mere sight of it. I slept poorly and lay for hours watching the great stars. The silence was painly oppressive. If Jones had not begun to give respectable imitation of the exhaust pipe on a steamboat, I should have been compelled to shout aloud or get up, but his snoring would have dispelled anything. The morning came gray and cheerless. I got up stiff and sore, with a tongue, like a rope. All day long we ran the gauntlet of the hot, flying sand. Night came again a cold, windy night. I slept well until a mule stepped on my bed, which was conducive to restlessness at dawn, cold, gray clouds, trying to blot out the rosy east. I could hardly get up. My lips were cracked, my tongue was swollen to twice its natural size. My smarted and burned the barrels and kegs of water were exhausted, holes that had been dug into dry sand of a dry stream bed. The night before, in the morning, yielded a scant supply of muddy alkaline water, which went to the horses. Only twice that day did I rouse to anything resembling enthusiasm. We came to a stretch of country showing the wonderful diversity of the desert land. A long range of beautifully rounded clay dunes bordered the trail. So symmetrical were they that I imagined them work of sculptors, light blue, dark blue, clay blue, marine blue, cobalt blue, every shade of blue was there, but no other color. The other time that I awoke to sensations from without was when we came to the top of a ridge. We had been passing through Redlands. Jones called the place a strong, specific word, which really was illustrative of the heat amid those scaling red ridges. We came out where the red changed abruptly to gray. I seemed always to see things first and I cried out, look here are red lake and trees. No land, not a lake, said old Jim smiling at me. That's what haunts the desert traveler. It's only a mirage. So I awoke to the realization of that elusive thing, the mirage, a beautiful eye, falsest stares of sand. Far northward a clear rippling lake sparkled in the sunshine. Tall, stately trees with waving green foliage bordered on water. For a long moment it lay there, smiling in the sun, a thing almost tangible. And then it faded. I felt a sense of actual loss. So real had been the illusion that I could not believe I was not soon to drink and wade and dabble in the cold waters. Disappointment was keen. This is what maddens the prospector sheepherder lost in the desert. Was it not a terrible thing to be dying of thirst to see sparkling water, almost to smell it, and then realize suddenly that all was only a lying trick of the desert, a lure, a delusion. I ceased to wonder at the Mormons and their search for water, their talk of water. But I had not realized its true significance. I had not known what water was. I had never appreciated it. So it was my destiny to learn that water is the greatest thing on earth. I hung over a three-foot hole in a dry spring bed and watched it ooze and seep through the sand and fill up, oh, so slowly. And I felt it loosen my parched tongue and steal through all my dry body with strength and life. Water is said to constitute three fourths of the universe. However, that may be on the desert. It is the whole world and all of life. Two days passed by, all hot sand and wind and glare. The Mormons sang no more at evening. Jones was silent. The dogs were limp as rags. At Machupi Wash we ran into a sandstorm. The horses turned their backs to it and bowed their heads patiently. The Mormons covered themselves. I wrapped a blanket round my head and hid behind a sagebrush. The wind carrying the sand made a strange hollerore. All was enveloped in a weird yellow opacity. The sand seeped through the sagebrush and swept by with a soft rustling sound, not unlike the wind in the rye. From time to time I raised a corner of my blanket and peeped out. Where my feet had stretched was an enormous mound of sand. I felt the blanket weighted down, slowly settle over me. Suddenly as it had come the sandstorm passed. It left a changed world for us. The trail was covered. The wheels hubbed deep in sand. The horses walking sand dunes. I could not close my teeth without grating harshly on sand. We journeyed onward and passed long lines of petrified trees, some a hundred feet in length, lying as they had fallen, thousands of years before. White ants crawled among the ruins. Slowly climbing the sandy trail we circled a great red bluff with jagged peaks that had seemed an interminable obstacle. A scant growth of cedar and sage again made its appearance. Here we halted to pass another night. Under a cedar I heard the plaintive piteous bleat of an animal. I searched and presently found a little black and white lamb, scarcely able to stand. It came readily to me. I carried it to the wagon. "'That's a Navajo lamb,' said him, and it's lost. "'There are Navajo Indians close by. Away in the desert we heard its cry,' quoted one of the Mormons. Jones and I climbed the red mess in near camp to see the sunset. All the Western world was a blaze in gold and glory. Shafts of light shot toward the zenith and bands of paler gold, tinging to rows, circled away from the fiery, sinking globe. Suddenly the sun sank, the gold changed to gray, then to purple, and shadows formed into deep gorge at our feet. So sudden was a transformation that soon it was night, the solemn, impressive night of the desert, a stillness that seemed too sacred to break, clasped the place. It was impenet. It held the bike on ages and eternity. More days and miles, miles, miles. The last day's ride to the big Colorado was unforgettable. We rode toward the head of a gigantic red-cliff pocket, a veritable inferno, a measurably hot, glaring awful. It towered higher and higher above us. When we reached a point of this red barrier, we heard the dull rumbling roar of water, and we came out at length on a winding trail, cut in the face of the bluff overhanging the Colorado River. The first sight of most famous and much heralded wonders of nature is often disappointing. But never can this be said of the blood-hued Rio Colorado. If it had beauty, it was beauty that appalled. So riveted was my gaze that I could hardly turn it across the river, where Emmett proudly pointed out his lonely home, and always sat down amidst beatling red cliffs. How grateful to the eye was the green of alfalfa and cottonwood. Going round the bluff trail, the wheels had only a foot of room to spare, and the sheer descent into the red turbid congested river was terrifying. I saw the constricted rapids where the Colorado took its plunge into the box-like head of the Grand Canyon of Arizona, and the deep reverberating boom of the river at flood-height was a fearful thing to hear. I could not repress a shudder at the thought of crossing above that rapid. The bronze walls widened as we proceeded, and we got down presently to a level where a long-wire cable stretched across the river. Under the cable ran a rope. On the other side was an old scowl moored to the bank. Are we going across in that, I asked Emmett, pointing to the boat? We'll all be on the other side before dark, he replied cheerfully. I felt that I would rather start back alone over the desert than trust myself in such a craft on such a river. And it was all because I had experience with bad rivers. And I thought I was a judge of dangerous currents. The Colorado slid with a menacing roar out of a giant split in the red wall. World eddied bulged on toward its confinement in the iron-ribbed canyon below. In answer to shots fired, Emmett's man appeared on the other side and rode down to the ferry landing. He got into a skiff and rode laboriously upstream for a long distance before he started to cross and then swung into the current. He swept down rapidly in twice the skiff world and completely turned round. After he reached our bank safely, taking two men aboard, he rode upstream again, close to the shore, and returned to the opposite side in much the same manner in which he had come over. The three men pushed out the scowl and grasping the rope overhead began to pull. The big craft ran easily. When the current struck it, the wire cable sagged, the water boiled and surged under it, rising one end and then the other. Nevertheless, five minutes were all that were required to pull the boat over. It was a rude oblong affair, made of heavy planks loosely put together and it leaked. When Jones suggested that we get the agony over as quickly as possible, I was with him and we embarked together. Jones said he did not like the look of the tackle and when I thought of his, by no means small mechanical skill, I had not, added a cheerful idea to my consciousness. The horses of the first team had to be dragged upon the scow and once on they reared and plunged. When we started, four men pulled the rope and Emmet sat in the stern with the tackle guys in hand. As the current hit us, he let out the guys which maneuver caused the boat to swing stern downstream. When it pointed obliquely, he made fast the guys again. I saw that this served two purposes. The current struck, slid alongside and over the stern, which mitigated the danger and at the same time helped the boat across. To look at the river was to court terror, but I had to look. It was an infernal thing. It roared in hollow, sullen voice as a monster growling. It had a voice this river and one strangely changeful. It moaned as if in pain, it whined, it cried. And at times it would seem strangely silent. The current was as complex and as mutable as human life. It boiled, beat and bulged. The bulge itself was an incomprehensible thing like a roaring lift of the waters from a submarine explosion. Then it would smooth out and run like oil. It shifted from one channel to another, rushed to the center of the river, then swung close to one shore or the other. Again, it swelled near the boat and great boiling, hissing eddies. Look, see where it breaks through the mountain? Yelled Jones in my ear. I looked upstream to see the stupendous granite walls separated in a gigantic split that must have been made by a terrible seismic disturbance. And from this gap poured the dark turgid mystic flood. I was in a cold sweat when we touched shore and I jumped long before the boat was properly moored. Emmet was wet to the waist where the water had surged over him. As he sat rearranging some tackle, I remarked to him that, of course, he must be a splendid swimmer or he would not take such risk. No, I can't swim a stroke, he replied. And it wouldn't be of any use if I could. Once in there a man's a goner. You've had accidents here, my question. No, not bad. We only drowned two men last year. You see, we had to tow the boat up the river and row across and then we hadn't the wire, just above on the other side the boat hit a stone and current washed over, taking off the team and two men. Didn't you attempt to rescue them, I ask, after waiting a moment? No use, they never came up. Hidden the river high now, I continued shuddering as I glanced out at the whirling logs and drifts. I am coming up. If I don't get the other teams over today, I'll wait until she goes down. At this season she rises and lowers every day or so until June, then comes the big flood and we don't cross for months. I sat for three hours watching Emmett bring over the rest of his party, which he did without accident, but at the expense of great effort and all the time in my years, dinned the roar, the boom, the rumble of this singularly rapacious and purposeful river, a river of silt, a red river of dark, sinister meaning, a river with terrible work to perform, a river which never gave up its dead. End of chapter one. Chapter two of The Last Plainsman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, recording by Mike Vendetti. The Last Plainsman by Zane Gray. Chapter two, The Range. After a much needed rest at Emmett's, we bade goodbye to him and his hospitable family and under the guidance of his men, once more took to the windswept trail. We pursued a southwesternly course now, following the lead of the creggy red wall that stretched on and on for hundreds of miles into Utah. The desert, smoky and hot, fell away to the left and in the foreground a dark irregular line marked the Grand Canyon, cutting through the plateau. The wind whipped in from the vast open expanse and meeting an obstacle on the red wall, turned north and raced past us. Jones's hat blew off, stood on its rim and rolled. It kept on rolling, 30 miles an hour more or less, so fast at least that we were a long time catching up to it with a team of horses. Possibly we never would have caught it, had not a stone, checked his flight. Further manifestation of the power of the desert wind surrounded us on all sides. It had hollowed out huge stones from the cliffs and tumbled them to the plain below, and then sweeping sand and gravel low across the desert floor, had cut them deeply, until they rested on slender pedestals, thus sculpturing grotesque and striking monuments to the marvelous persistence of this element of nature. Late that afternoon we reached the height of the plateau. Jones woke up and shouted, ah, there's buckskin. Far southward lay a long black mountain, covered with patches of shining snow. I could follow the zigzag line of the Grand Canyon, splitting the desert plateau and saw it disappear in the haze round the end of the mountain. From this I got my first clear impression of the topography of the country surrounding our objective point. Buckskin Mountain ran its blunt end eastward to the canyon, in fact, formed 100 miles of the North Rim. As it was 9,000 feet high it still held the snow, which had occasioned Darv's lengthy desert ride to get back up the mountain. I could see the long slopes rising out of the desert to meet the timber. As with bold, merrily downgrade, I noticed that we were no longer on stony ground and that a little scant silvery grass had made its appearance. Then little branches of green with the blue flower smiled out of the clay sand. All of a sudden Jones stood up and let out a wild, Comanche yell. I was more startled by the yell than by the great hand he smashed down on my shoulder and for the moment I was dazed. There, look, look, the buffalo, hey, hi, hi! Below us a few miles on a rising gnoll a big herd of buffalo shone black under the gold of the evening sun. I had not Jones's incentive, but I felt enthusiasm born of the wild and beautiful picture and added my yell to his. The huge, burly leader of the herd lifted his head and after regarding us for a few moments, calmly went on browsing. The desert had fringed away into a grand rolling pasture land walled in by the red cliffs, the slopes of Buckskin and further isolated by the canyon. Here was a range of 2,400 square miles without a foot of barb wire, a pasture fenced in by natural forces with the splendid feature that the buffalo could browse on the plain in winter and go up into the cool foothills of Buckskin in summer. From another ridge we saw a cabin dotting the rolling plain and in half an hour we reached it. As we climbed down from the wagon, a brown and black dog came dashing out of the cabin and promptly jumped at Moe's. This selection showed poor discrimination for Moe's whipped him before I could separate them. Hearing Jones hardly greeting someone, I turned in his direction, only to be distracted by another dog fight. John had tackled Moe's for the seventh time. Memory rankled in Don and needed a lot of whipping, some of which he was getting when I rescued him. Next moment I was shaking hands with Frank and Jim, Jones's ranchman. At a glance I liked them both. Frank was short and wiry and had a big ferocious mustache, the effect of which was softened by his kindly brown eyes. Jim was tall, little heavier. He had a careless tidy look. His eyes were searching and though he appeared a young man, his hair was white. I sure am glad to see you all. Said Jim in a slow, soft, southern accent. Get down, get down, was Frank's welcome, a typically western one, for we had hardly gotten down and come in, you must be worked out. Sure you've come a long way. He was quick of speech, full of nervous energy and beamed with hospitality. The cabin was the rudest kind of log affair with a huge stone fireplace in one end, deer antlers and coyote skins on the wall, saddles and cowboys traps in the corner, a nice large promising cupboard and a cable and chairs. Jim threw wood on a smoldering fire that soon blazed and crackled cheerily. I sank down into a chair with a feeling of blessed relief. Ten days of desert right behind me, promise of wonderful days before me with the last of the old plainsman. No wonder a sweet sense of ease stole over me, or that the fire seemed a live and joyously welcoming thing, or that Jim's deft maneuvers in preparation of supper aroused in me a rapt admiration. Twenty calves is spring, cried Jones, punching me in the sore side, $10,000 worth of calves. He was now altogether changed man. He looked almost young, his eyes danced and he rubbed his big hands together while he plied Frank with questions. In strange surroundings, that is, away from his native wilds, Jones had been a silent man. It had been almost impossible to get anything out of him. But now I saw that I should come to know the real man. In a very few moments he had talked more than on all the desert trip and what he had said added to the little I had already learned put me in possession of some interesting information as to his buffalo. Some years before he had conceived the idea of hybridizing buffalo with black Galway cattle and with the characteristic determination and energy of the man, he had once set about finding a suitable range. This was difficult and took years of searching. At last the wild north rim of the Grand Canyon, a section unknown except to a few Indians and Mustang hunters was settled upon. Then the gigantic task of transporting the herd of buffalo by rail from Montana to Salt Lake was begun. The 290 miles of desert lying between the home of the Mormons and the Buckskin Mountain was an obstacle almost insurmountable. The journey was undertaken and found even more trying than had been expected. Buffalo after buffalo died on the way. Then Frank Jones' right hand man put into execution a plan he had been thinking of, namely to travel by night. It succeeded. The buffalo rested in the day and traveled by easy stages by night, which the result that the big herd was transported to the ideal range. Here in an environment strange to the race, but particularly adaptable, they thrived and multiplied. The hybrid of the Galway cow and buffalo proved a great success. Jones called the new species Catalo. The Catalo took the heartiness of the buffalo and never required artificial food or shelter. He would face the desert storm or blizzard and stand stock still in his tracks until the weather cleared. He became quite domestic, could be easily handled and grew exceedingly fat on very little Provinder. The folds of his stomach were so numerous that they digested even the hardest and flintiest of corn. He had 14 ribs on each side while domestic cattle had only 13, thus he could endure rougher work and longer journeys to water. His fur was so dense and glossy that it equaled that of the unplugged beaver or otter and was fully as valuable as the buffalo robe and not to be overlooked by any means was the fact that his meat was delicious. Jones had to hear every detail of all that had happened since his absence in yeast and he was particularly inquisitive to learn all about the 20 Catalo calves. He called different buffalo by name and designated the calves by descriptive terms such as white face and cross patch. He almost forgot to eat and kept Frank too busy to get anything into his own mouth. After supper he calmed down. How about your other man, Mr. Wallace? I think you said, ask Frank. We expected to meet him at Grand Canyon Station and then at Flagstaff, but he didn't show up. Either he backed out or missed us, I'm sorry. For when we get up on buckskin among the wild horses and cougars we'll be likely to need him. I'll reckon you'll need me as well as Jim, said Frank Drally with a twinkle in his eye. The buffs are in good shape and can get along without me for a while. That'll be fine. How about Cougar sign on the mountain? Plenty. We got two spotted coming over near Oak Spring two weeks ago. I tracked them in the snow along the trail for miles. We'll ease over that way as it's going towards the seawash. The seawash breaks of the canyon. There's the place for lions. I met a wild horse wrangler not long back and he was telling me about Old Tom and the colts he'd killed this winter. Naturally I expressed here a desire to know more of Old Tom. He's the biggest cougar ever known in these parts. His tracks are bigger than a horse's and have been seen on buckskin for 12 years. This wrangler, his name is Chuck. Said he turned his saddle horse out to Grey's near camp and Old Tom sneaked in and downed him. Lions over there are sure a bold bunch. Well, why shouldn't they be? No one ever hunted them. You see, the mountain is hard to get at but now you're here and big cats you want. We sure can find them. Only be easy, be easy. You've all the time there is and any job on buckskin will take time. We'll look at the calves over and you must ride the range to harden up. Then we'll lose over towards Oak. I expect it'll be boggy and I hope the snow melts soon. The snow hadn't melted on Greenland Point, replied Jones. We saw that with a glass from the El Tavar. We wanted to cross that way but Rust said Bright Angel Creek was breast-high to a horse and that creek is the trail. There's four feet of snow on Greenland, said Frank. It was too early to come that way. There's only about three months in the year the canyon can be crossed at that Greenland. I want to get in the snow, returned Jones. This bunch of long-eared canines are brought never smelled to lion track. Hounds can't be trained quick without snow. You've got to see what they're trailing or you can't break them. Frank looked dubious. Pears to me will have trouble getting a lion without lion dogs. It takes a long time to break a hound off a deer once he's chased him. Buck's skin is full of deer, wolves, coyotes and there's the wild horses. We couldn't go a hundred feet without crossing trails. How's the hound you and Jim fetched in last year? Has he got a good nose? Here he is, I like his head. Come here Bowser, what's his name? Jim named him Sounder because he sure has a voice. It's great to hear him on the trail. Sounder has a nose that can't be fooled and he'll trail anything, but I don't know if he ever got up on a lion. Sounder wagged his bushy tail and looked up affectionately at Frank. He had a fine head, great brown eyes, very long ears and curly brownish black hair. He was not demonstrative, looked rather as skinned to Jones and avoided the other dogs. A dog will make a great lion chaser, said Jones decisively after his study of Sounder. He and Moes will keep us busy once they learn we want lions. I don't believe any dog trainer could teach them short of six months, replied Frank. Sounder's no spring chicken and that black and dirty white cross between a coyote and a barbed wire fence is an old dog. You can't teach old dogs new tricks. Jones smiled mysteriously, a smile of conscious superiority but said nothing. Well sure have a storm to our, said Jim, relinquishing his pipe long enough to speak. He had been silent and now his meditative gaze was on the west, through the cabin window, where a dull afterglow faded after the heavy laden clouds of night and left the horizon dark. I was very tired when I lay down but so full of excitement that sleep did not soon visit my eyelids. The talk about buffalo, wild horse hunters, lions and dogs, the prospect of hard riding unusual adventure, the vision of old Tom that had already begun to haunt me, filled my mind with pictures and fancies. The other fellows dropped off to sleep and quiet rained. Suddenly a succession of queer sharp barks came from the plane, close to the cabin. Coyotes were paying us a call and judging from the chorus of yelps and howls from our dogs, it was not a welcome visit. Above the medley rose a big deep full voice that I knew at once belonged to sounder. Then all was quiet again, sleep gradually benun my senses. Big phrases, dreamily drifted to and fro in my mind. Jones, wild range, old Tom, sounder, great name, great voice, sounder, sounder, sound. Next morning I could hardly crawl out of my sleeping bag. My bones ached, my muscles protested excruciatingly, my lips burned in blood and the cold I had contracted on the desert clung to me. A good brisk walk around the corrals and then breakfast made me feel better. Of course you can ride, worried Frank. My answer was not given from an overwhelming desire to be truthful. Frank frowned a little as if wondering how a man could have the nerve to start out on a jaunt with Buffalo Jones without being a good horseman. To be unable to stick on the back of a wild mustang or a coyose was an unpartable sin in Arizona. My frank admission was made relatively with my mind on what cowboys held as a standard of horsemanship. The Mount Frank trotted out from the corral for me was a pure white, beautiful mustang, nervous, sensitive quivering. Watch Frank put on the saddle and when he called me I did not fail to catch a covert twinkle in his merry brown eyes. Looking away toward Buckskin Mountain which was coincidentally in the direction of home I said to myself, this may be where you get on but most certainly it is where you get off. Jones was already riding far beyond the corral as I could see by a cloud of dust and I set off after him with the painful consciousness that I must have looked at Frank and Jim. Much as Central Park equestrians had often looked to me. Frank shouted after me that he would catch up with us out on the range. I was not in any great hurry to overtake Jones but evidently my horse's inclinations differed from mine. At any rate he made the dust fly and jumped the little sage brushes. Jones who had tarried to inspect one of the pools formed of running water from the corrals greeted me as I came up with this cheerful observation. What in thunder did Frank give you that white nag for? Buffalo hate white horses, anything white. They're liable to stampede off the range or chase you into the canyon. I replied grimly that as it was certain something was going to happen the particular circumstance might as well come off quickly. We rode over the rolling plain with the cool bracing breeze in our faces. The sky was dull and mottled with a beautiful cloud effect that pre-staged wind. As we trotted along Jones pointed out to me and discounted upon the nutritive value of three different kinds of grass, one of which he called the Buffalo pea, noteworthy for a beautiful blue blossom. Soon we passed out of sight of the cabin and could see only the billowy plain, the red dips of the stony wall and the black fringe crest of buckskin. After riding awhile we met out some cattle, a few of which were on the range browsing in the lee of a ridge. No sooner had I marked them than Jones let out another Comanche yell. Wolf, he yelled, and spurring his big bay he was off like the wind. A single glance showed me several cows running as if bewildered, and near them a big white wolf pulled on a cap. Another white wolf stood not far off. My horse jumped as if he had been shot and the realization darted upon me that here was where the certain something began. Spot the Mustang had one black spot on his pure white. Snorted like I imagined a blooded horse might, under dire insult. Jones's bay had gotten about a hundred paces the start. I lived to learn that Spot hated to be left behind. Moreover, he would not be left behind. He was the swiftest horse on the range and proud of the distinction. I cast one unmentionable word on the breeze toward the cabin and Frank, then put mind and muscle to the sore task of remaining with Spot. Jones was born on a saddle and had been taking his meals on a saddle for about sixty-three years and the Bay Horse could run. Run is not a felitious word, he flew, and I was rendered mentally deranged for the moment to see that hundred paces between the bay and Spot materially lessened at every jump. Spot lengthened out seemed to go down near the ground and cut the air like a highest geared auto. If I had not heard the fast rhythmic beat of his hoofs and not bounced high into the air at every jump, I would have been sure. I was riding a bird. I tried to stop him. As well might I have tried to pull in the Lutistania with a thread. Spot was out to overhaul the bay and in spite of me he was doing it. The wind rushed into my face and sang in my ears. Jones seemed the nucleus of a sort of haze and he grew larger and larger. Presently he became clearly defined in my sight. The violent commotion under me subsided. I once more felt the saddle and then I realized that Spot had been content to stop alongside Dove Jones, tossing his head and chomping at his bit. Well, by George. I didn't know you were in the stretch, cried my companion. That was a fine little brush. We must have come several miles. I'd have killed those wolves if I had brought a gun. The big one that had the calf was a bold brute. He never let go until I was within 50 feet of him. Then I almost rode him down. I don't think the calf was much hurt. But those bloodthirsty devils will return and likeers not get the calf. That's the worst of cattle raising. Now take the buffalo. Do you suppose those wolves could have gotten a buffalo calf out from under the mother? Never, neither could a whole band of wolves. Buffaloes stick close together and the little ones do not stray. When danger threatens the herd closes in and faces it and fights. That is what is grand about the buffalo and what made them once roam the prairies in countless endless droves. From the highest elevation in that part of the range we viewed the surrounding riches, flats and hollows, searching for the buffalo. At length we spied a plot of dust rising from behind an undulating mound. Then big black dots ove in sight. Frank has rounded up the herd and is driving it this way. We'll wait, said Jones. Little buffalo appeared to be moving fast, a long time elapsed before they reached the foot of our outlook. They lumbered along in a compact mass so dense that I could not count them. But I estimated the number to be at 75. Frank was riding zigzag behind him, swinging his lariat and yelling. When he aspired us he rained in his horse and waited. Then the herd slowed down, halted and began browsing. Look at the cattle-low calves. See how shy they are, how close they sticked to the mothers. Little brown fellows were plainly frightened. I made several unsuccessful attempts to photograph them and gave up when Jones told me not to ride too close and that it would be better to wait till we had them in the corral. He took my camera and instructed me to go on ahead, in the rear of the herd. I heard the click of the instrument as they snapped a picture. And then suddenly I heard him shout in alarm. Look out, look out, pull your oars. Thundering hoofbeats pounding the earth accompanied his word. I saw a big bull with his head down, tail raised, charging my horse. He answered Frank's yell of command with a furious brunt. I was paralyzed at the wonderfully swift action of the shaggy brute and I said helpless, spot-wheeled as if he were on a pivot and plunged out of the way with a celerity that was astounding. The buffalo stopped, pawed the ground and angrily tossed his huge head. Frank rode up to him, yelled and struck him with the lariat. Whereupon he gave another toss of his horns and then returned to the herd. It was that darned-white nag, said Jones. Frank, it was wrong to put an inexperienced man on spot. For that matter the horse should never be allowed to go near Buffalo. Spot knows the buffs, they'd never get to him, replied Frank. But the usual spirit was absent from his voice and he glanced at me soberly. I knew I had turned white, for I felt the peculiar cold sensation in my face. Now look at that, will you, cried Jones? I don't like the looks of that. He pointed to the herd, they stopped browsing and were uneasily shifting to and fro. The bull lifted his head, the others slowly grouped together. Storm, sandstorm, explained Jones, pointing desertward. Dark yellow clouds like smoke were rolling, sweeping, bearing down upon us. They expanded, blossoming out like gigantic roses. And whirled and merged into one another, all the time rolling on and blotting out the light. We've got to run, that storm may last two days, yelled Frank to me. We've had some bad ones lately. Give your horse free reign and cover your face. A roar resembling an approaching storm at sea came on puffs of wind. As the horses got onto their stride, long streaks of dust whipped up in different places. The silver white grass bent to the ground. Round bunches of sage went rolling before us. The puffs grew longer, steadier, harder. Then a shrieking blast howled on the art trail, seeming to swoop down on us with a yellow blinding paw. I shut my eyes and covered my face with a handkerchief. The sand blew so thick that it filled my gloves. Pebbles struck me hard enough to sting through my coat. Fortunately, spot kept to an easy swinging lope, which was the most comfortable motion for me. But I began to get numb and could hardly stick on the saddle. Almost before I had dared to hope spot stopped. Uncovering my face, I saw Jim in the doorway of the lee side of the cabin. The yellow, streaky whistling clouds of sand split on the cabin and passed on, leaving a small dusty space of light. Sure spot do hate to be beat, yelled Jim, as he helped me off. I stumbled into the cabin and fell upon a buffalo robe and lay there absolutely spent. Jones and Frank came in a few minutes apart, each anthropizing the gritty, powdery sand. All day the desert storm raged and roared. The dust sifted through the numerous cracks in the cabin. Bird in our clothes spoiled our food and blinded our eyes. Wind, snow, sleet and rainstorms are discomforting enough under trying circumstances. But all combined, they are nothing to the choking, stinging, blinding sandstorm. Sure it'll end up by sundown if you're Jim. And sure enough the roar died away about five o'clock. The wind abated and the sand settled. Just before supper and knock sounded heavily on the cabin door, Jim opened it to admit one of Emmett's sons and a very tall man whom none of us knew. He was a sand man. Although it was not sand, seemed a space or two of corduroy, a big bone-handled knife, a prominent square jaw and bronze cheek and flashing eyes. Get down, get down. Good morning, a stranger, said Frank Corduli. Howdy-do, sir, said Jones. Colonel Jones, I've been on your trail for twelve days, announced to the stranger with a grim smile. The sand streamed off his coat in little white streaks. Jones appeared to be casting about in his mind. Grant Wallace, continued the newcomer, I missed you at El Tower at Williams and at Flagstaff, where I was one day behind. Was half a day late at the little Colorado, saw you trained across Moncapay Wash and missed you because of the sandstorm there, saw you from the other side of the big Colorado as you rode out from Emmett's along the red wall. And here I am. We've never met till now, which obviously is my fault. The Colonel and I fell upon Wallace's neck. Frank manifested his usual alert excitation and said, well, I guess he won't hang fire on a long cougar, Chase. And Jim, slow, careful Jim, jumped off to plate with the exclamation, sure it do beat hell. The hound sniffed around Wallace and welcomed him with vigorous tails. Supper that night, even if we did grind sand with our teeth, was a joyous occasion. The biscuits were flaky and light, the bacon fragrant and crisp. I produced a jar of Blackberry Jam, which by subtle cunning I had been able to secrete from the Mormons on the dry desert ride. And it was greeted with acclamations of pleasure. Wallace divested up his sand guys, beamed with a gratification of a hungry man, once more in the presence of friends and food. He made large cavities in Jim's great pot of potato stew and caused biscuits to vanish in a way that would not have shamed a Hindu magician. The Grand Canyon he dug in my jar of Jam, however, could not have been accomplished by a ledger demean. Talk became animated on dogs, cougars, horses, and buffalo. Jones told of our experience out on the range and concluded with some silent remarks. A tame wild animal is the most dangerous of beasts. My old friend Dick Rock, a great hunter and guide out of Idaho, laughed at my advice and got killed by one of his three-year-old bulls. I told him they knew him just well enough to kill him. And they did. My friend, age Cole of Oxford, Nebraska, tried to rope a weta that was too tame to be safe. And the bull killed him, same with General Bull, a member of the Kansas legislature and two cowboys who went into a corral to tie up a tame elk at the wrong time. I pleaded with him not to undertake it. They had not studied animals as I had. That tame elk killed all of them. He had to be shot in order to get General Bull off his great antlers. You see, a wild animal must learn to respect a man. The way I used to teach the Yellowstone Park bears to be respectable and safe neighbors was to rope them around the front paw, swing them up on a tree clear of the ground, and whoop them with a long pole. It was a dangerous business and looks cruel, but it is the only way I could find to make the bears good. You see, they eat scraps around the hotels and get so tame they will steal everything but red-hot stoves and will cuff the life out of those who try to shoot them off. But after a bear mother has had a licking, she not only becomes a good bear for the rest of her life, but she tells all her cubs about it with a good smack of her paw for emphasis and teaches them to respect peaceful citizens generation after generations. One of the hardest jobs I ever tackled was that of supplying the Buffalo for Bronx Park. I rounded up a magnificent King Buffalo bull, belligerent enough to fight a battleship. When I rode after him, the common said I was as good as killed. I made a lance by driving a nail into the end of a shorter pole and sharpening it. After he had chased me, I wheeled my Bronco and hurled the lance into his back, ripping a wound as long as my hand. That put the fear of Providence into him and took the fight all out of him. I drove him uphill and down and across canyons at a dead run for eight miles, single-handed, loaded him on a freight car. But he came near getting me once or twice and only quick Bronco work and lance play saved me. In the Yellowstone Park, all our buffaloes have become docile, accepting the huge bull which led them. The Indians call the Buffalo leader the Weta, the master of the herd. It was sure death to go near this one. So I shipped in another Weta, hoping that he might whip some of the fight out of the old Manitou, the mighty. They came together head-on, like a railway collision, and ripped up over a square-mile landscape, fighting till night came on and then on into the night. I jumped into the field with him, chasing them with my biograph, getting a series of moving pitchers of the bullfight, which was sure a real thing. It was a ticklish thing to do, though, knowing that neither bull dared take his eyes off his adversary for a second. Felt reasonably safe. The old Weta beat the new champion out that night, but the next morning they were at it again, and the new Buffalo finally whipped the old one into submission. Since then, his spirit has remained broken and even a child can approach him safely. But the new Weta is in turn a holy terror. To handle Buffalo elk and bearer, you must get into sympathy with their methods of reasoning. No tender foot stands in each hole, even with the tame animals of the Yellowstone. The old Buffalo hunter's lips were no longer locked. One after another he told reminiscence of his eventful life, in a simple manner yet so vivid and gripping, were the unvarnished details that I was spellbound. Considering what appears the impossibility of capturing a full-grown Buffalo, how did you earn the name of preserver of the American bison, inquired Wallace? It took years to learn how and ten more to capture the 58 that I was able to keep. I tried every plan under the sun. I roped hundreds of all sizes and ages. They would not live in captivity. If they could not find an embankment over which to break their necks, they would crush their skulls on stones. Failing any means like that, they would lie down, will themselves to die and die. Think of a savage wild nature that could will its heart to cease beating. But it's true. Finally I found that I could keep only calves under three months of age, but to capture them so young entailed time and patience. For the Buffalo fight for their young, and when I say fight I mean that till they drop. I almost always had to go alone because I could neither coax nor hire any one to undertake it with me. Sometimes I would be weeks on getting one calf. One day I captured eight, eight little Buffalo calves. Never will I forget that day as long as I live. Tell us about it, I suggested in a matter of fact round the campfire voice. Had the silent Plainsman ever told a complete and full story of his adventures, I doubted it. He was not the man to eulogize himself. A short silence ensued. The cabin was snug and warm. The Rudy Embers glowed. One of Jim's pots steamed musically and frequently. The hounds lay curled in a cozy, chimney corner. Jones began to talk again, simply and unaffectedly, of his famous exploit. And as he went on so modestly passing lightly over features we recognized as wonderful, I allowed the fire of my imagination to fuse for myself. All the toil, patience, endurance, skill, perculean strength, and marvelous courage, and unfathomable passion, which he slighted in his narrative. End of chapter two. Chapter three of The Last Plainsman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, recording by Mike Vendetti. The Last Plainsman by Zane Gray. Chapter three, The Last Heard. Over gray, no man's land, stole down the shadows of night. The undulating prairie, shaded dark to the western horizon, rimmed with a fading streak of light. Tall figures, silhouetted sharply against the last golden glow of sunset, marked the rounded crest of a glassy knoll. Wild hunter, cried a voice in sullen rage. Buffalo or no, we halt here. Did Adams and I hire to cross the staked plains? Two weeks in no man's land, and now we're facing the sand. We've won keg of water, yet you want to keep on. Oh, my man, you're crazy. You didn't tell us you wanted Buffalo alive. And here you've got us looking, death in the eye. In the grim silence that ensued, the two men unhitched the team from the long, light wagon, while the Buffalo hunter staked out his wiry, life-limbed resources. Soon a fluttering blaze threw a circle of light, which, shown on the agitated face of rude and Adams, and the cold, iron-set visage of their brawny leader. It's this way, began Jones in slow, cool voice. I engaged you, fellows, and you promised to stick by me. We've had no luck, but I've finally found sign, old sign I'll admit, of the Buffalo I'm looking for, the last herd on the plains. For two years I've been hunting this herd, so have other hunters. Millions of Buffalo have been killed and left to rot. Soon this herd will be gone, and then the only Buffalo in the world will be those I have given 10 years of the hardest work in capturing. This is the last herd, I say, and my last chance to capture a calf or two. Do you imagine I'd quit? You fellows, go back if you want, but I keep on. We can't go back, we're lost. We'll have to go with you. But man, thirst is not the only risk we run. This is Comanche country. And if that herd is in here, the Indians have it spotted. That worries me some, replied the Plainsman. But we'll keep on. I slept. The night wind swished the grasses, dark storm clouds blotted out the northern stars, the prairie wolves mourned dismally. Day broke cold, warm, threatening. Under a leaden sky, the hunters traveled 30 miles by noon, and halted in a hollow where a stream flowed in wet season. Cottonwood trees were bursting into green, thickets of prickly thorn dance and matted, showed bright spring buds. What is it? Suddenly whispered rude. The Plainsman lay in strained posture, his ear against the ground. I'd the wagon and horses in that clump of cottonwoods, he ordered, tersely. Springing to his feet, he ran to the top of the knoll above the hollow, where he again placed his ear to the ground. Jones's practised ear had detected the quivering rumble of far away thundering hooves. He searched the wide waist of plain with his powerful glass. To the southwest, miles distant, a cloud of dust, mushroom skyward. Not buffalo, he muttered. Maybe wild horses. He watched and waited. The old cloud rolled forward, enlarging, spreading out, and drove before it a darkly indistinct moving mass. As soon as he had one good look at this, he ran back to his comrades. Stampede, wild horses, Indians! Look to your rifles and hide. Wordless and pale, the men examined their sharps and made ready to follow Jones. He slipped into the thorny break and flat on his stomach wormed his way like a snake far into the thickly interlaced web of branches. Rudin Adams crawled after him. Words were superfluous. Quiet, breathless, with beating hearts, the hunters pressed close to the dry grass. A long, low, steady rumble filled the air and increased in volume till it became a roar. Moments, endless moments, passed. The roar filled out like a flood, slowly released from its confines to sweep down with the sound of doom. The ground began to tremble and quake. The light faded, the smell of dust pervaded the thicket, then a continuous streaming roar, deafening as a persistent roar of thunder pervaded the hiding place, the stampeding horses that split round the hollow. The roar lessened, swiftly as a departing snow squall, rushing on through the pines, the thunder's thud and tramp of hooves died away. The trained horses, hidden in the cottonwoods, never stirred. Lilo, Lilo, breathed the planesman to his companions. Throb of hooves again became saudable, not loud and madly pounding as those that had passed but low muffled rhythmic. Jones's sharp eye, through a peephole in the thicket, saw a cream-colored Mustang bob over the knoll, carrying an Indian, another and another, then a swiftly following, close-packed throng appeared. Bright red feathers and white gleamed, weapons glinted, got bronze savages, leaned forward on racy, slender Mustangs. The planesman shrank closer to the ground. Apache, he exclaimed to himself and gripped his rifle. The band galloped down through the hollow and, slowing up, piled single file over the bank. The leader, a short squat chief, plunged into the break not twenty yards from the hidden men. Jones recognized the cream Mustang, into the somber, sinister broad face. It belonged to the red chief of the Apaches. Pteranomo, remembered the planesman through his teeth. Well, for the Apache that no falcon savage eye discovered ought strange in that little hollow. One look at the sand of the stream-bed would have cost him his life, but the Indians crossed the thicket too far up. They cantered up the slope and disappeared, though hoof-beats softened and ceased. Gone, whispered Rude. Gone, await, whispered Jones. He knew the savage nature and he knew how to wait. After a long time he cautiously crawled out of the thicket and searched the surroundings with the planesman's eye. He climbed the slope and saw the clouds of dust, the near one small, the far one large, which told him all he needed to know. Comanches, worried Adams with a quaver in his voice. He was new to the planes. Likely, said Jones, who thought it best not to tell all he knew. Then he added to himself, we have no time to lose. There's water back here somewhere. The Indians have spotted the buffalo and we're running the horses away from the water. The three got underway again, proceeding carefully. So as not to raise the dust and head a dew southwest, scantier and scantier grew the grass, the hollows were washes of sand, steely-gray dunes like long, flat ocean swells, rid the prairie. The gray day declined. Late into the purple night they traveled, then camped without fire. In the gray morning Jones climbed a high rise and scammed the southwest. Low, dun-colored sand hills waved from him down and down as low, deceptive descent. A solitary and remote waste reached out into gray, infinitude. A pale lake, gray as the rest of the gray expands, glimmered in the distance. Mirage, he muttered focusing his glass which only magnified all under the dead gray steel sky. Water must be somewhere, but can that be it? It's too pale and elusive to be real. No life, a blasted, staked plane. Hello. A thin black wavering line of wild Powell, moving in a beautiful rapid flight crossed the line of his vision. Geese flying north and low, there's water here, he said. He followed the flock with his glass, saw them circle over the lake and vanish in the gray sheen. It's water. He hurried back to the camp. His haggard and worn companion scorned his discovery. Adam, signing with rude, who knew the plane said, mirage, the lure of the desert. Yet dominated by a force too powerful for them to resist, they followed the buffalo hunter. All day the gleaming lake beckoned them onward and seemed to recede. All day the drab clouds scutted before the cold north wind. In the gray twilight, the lake suddenly lay before them as if it had opened at their feet. The men rejoiced, the horses lifted their noses and sniffed the damp air. The winnys of the horses, the clank of harnesses and splash of water, the whir of ducks, did not blur out of Joan's cane ear. A sound that made him chump was the thump of hooves. In a familiar beat, beat, beat, he saw a shadow moving up a ridge. Soon, outlined black against the yet light sky, a lone buffalo cow stood like a statue. A moment she held toward the lake, studying the danger, then went out of sight over the ridge. Joan spurred his horse up through his scent, which was rather long and steep, but he mounted the summit in time to see the cow join eight huge shaggy buffalo. The hunter reigned in his horse and standing high in his stirrups, held his hat at arm's length over his head, so he thrilled to a moment he had sought for two years. The last herd of American bison was near at hand. The cow would not venture far from the main herd. The H. Draglers were the old, broken-down bulls that had been expelled at this season, from the herd by younger and more vigorous bulls. The old monarchs saw the hunter at the same time his eyes were gladdened by sight of them and lumbered away after the cow to disappear in the gathering darkness. Brightened buffalo always make straight for their fellows and this knowledge contented Jones to return to the lake while satisfied that the herd would not be far away in the morning within easy striking distance by daylight. At dark the storm which had threatened for days broke in a fury of rain, sleet, and hail. The hunter stretched a piece of canvas over the wheels of the north side of the wagon and went and shivering crawled under it to their blankets. During the night the storm raged with unabated strength. Dawn, forbidding and raw, lightened to the whistle of the sleety gusts. Fire was out of the question. Cherry of weight the hunters had carried no wood and the buffalo chips they used for fuel were lumps of ice. Grumbling atoms and rude, ate a cold breakfast while Jones munching a biscuit faced the biting blast from the crest of the ridge. The middle of the plain below held a ragged circular mass as still as stone. It was the buffalo herd with every shaggy head to the storm. So they would stand never budging from their tracks till the blizzard of the sleet was over. Jones, though eager and impatient, restrained himself for it was unwise to begin operations in the storm. There was nothing to do but wait. Illfair the hunters that day. Food had to be eaten uncooked. The long hours dragged by with the little group huddled under icy blankets. When darkness fell the sleet changed to drizzling rain. This blew over at midnight and a colder wind penetrating to the very marrow of the sleepless men made their condition worse. In the after part of the night the wolves howled mournfully. With a gray misty light appearing in the east Jones threw off his stiff ice-encased blanket and crawled out. Got gray wolf the color of the day and the sand and the lake sneaked away looking back. While moving and threshing about to warm his frozen blood Jones munched another biscuit. His men crawled from under the wagon and made an unfruitful search for the whiskey. Faring it Jones had thrown the bottle away. The men cursed. Patient horses drooped sadly and shivered in the lee of the improvised tent. Jones kicked the inch thick casing of ice from his saddle. Kentucky's racer had been spared on the whole trip for this day's work. The thoroughbred was cold but as Jones threw the saddle over him he showed that he knew the chase ahead and was eager to be off. At last after repeated efforts with his benumbed fingers Jones got the girth tight. He tied a bunch of soft cords to the saddle and mounted. Follow as fast as you can. He called to his surly men. The bluffs will run north against the wind. This is the right direction for us. We'll soon leave the sand. Stick to my trail and come a hunming. From the ridge he met the red sun rising bright and a keen northeasterly wind that lashed like a whip. As he had anticipated his query had moved northward. Tentuck led out into a swinging stride which in an hour had the loping herd in sight. Every jump not took him upon higher ground where the sand failed and the grass grew thicker and began to bend under the wind. In the teeth of the nipping gale Jones slipped close upon the herd without alarming even a cow. More than a hundred little reddish black calves leisurely loped in the rear. Tentuck came to his work, crept on like a wolf, and the hunter's great fist clenched the coiled lasso. Before him expanded a boundless plane, a situation long cherished and dreamed of had become a reality. Tentuck fresh and strong was good for all day. Jones gloated over the little red bulls and heifers as a miser gloats over gold and jewels. Never before had he caught more than two in one day and often it had taken days to capture one. This was the last herd. This the last opportunity toward perpetuating a grand race of beasts, and with born instinct he saw ahead the day of his life. At a touch Tentuck closed in and the buffalo seeing him stampeded into a heaving roll so well known to the hunter. Racing on the right flank of the herd Jones selected a tawny heifer and shot the lariat after her, it felt true, but being stiff and kinky from the sleet failed to tighten and the quick cap licked to the loop to freedom. Undismayed the pursuer quickly recovered his rope. Again he whirled and sent the loop. Again it circled true and failed to close. Again the agile heifer bounded through it. Jones whipped the air with a stubborn rope. To lose a chance like that was worse than boy's work. The third whirl, running a smaller loop, tightened the coil round the frightened cap just back of its ears. A pull on the bridal broad Kentuck to a halt in this tracks, and the baby buffalo rolled over and over in the grass. Jones bounced from his seat and jerked loose a couple of the soft cords in a twinkling. His big knee crushed down on the calf and his big hands bounded helpless. Kentuck knayed. Jones saw his black ears go up, danger threatened. For a moment the hunter's blood turned chill, not from fear, for he never felt fear, but because he thought the Indians were returning to ruin his work. His eyes swept plain, only the gray forms of wolves flitted through the grass here, there, all about him. Wolves, they were as fatal to his enterprise as savages. A trooping pack of prairie wolves had fallen in with the herd and hung close on the trail, trying to cut a calf away from its mother. The gray brutes boldly trotted within a few yards of him and slightly looked at him with pale, fiery eyes. They had already sent his captive. Precious time flew by. The situation, critical and baffling, had never before been met by him. There lay his little cap tied fast into the north and many others, some of which he must. He would have. To think quickly had met the solving of many of Plainsman's problem. Should he stay with his prize to save it or leave it to be devoured? Ah, you old gray devils, he yelled, shaking his fist at the wolves. I know a trick or two. Slipping his hat between the legs of the cap, he fastened it securely. This done, he vaulted on Kentuck and was off with never a backward glance. Certain it was that the wolves would not touch anything alive or dead that bore the scent of a human being. The bison scurried away a long half-mile in the lead, sailing northward like a cloud shadow over the plain. Kentuck, meddlesome, overeager, would have run himself out in short order, but the wary hunters strong to restrain as well as Impel, with the long day in his mind, kept the steed in his easy stride, which, bringily and stretching, overhauled their herd in a course of several miles. A dash, a whirl, a shock, a leap, horse and hunter working in perfect accord. And a fine big calf, bellowing lustily, struggled desperately for freedom under the remorseless knee. The big hands toyed with him, and then secure in the double knots, the calf lay still, sticking out his tongue and rolling his eyes with the coat of the hunter, tucked under his bounds to keep away the wolves. The race had but begun. The horse had but warmed to his work. The hunter had but tasted of sweet triumph. Another hopeful of a buffalo mother, negligent in danger, truant from his brothers, stumbled and fell in the meshing loop. The hunter's vest, slipped over the calf's neck, served as danger signal to the wolves. Before the lumbering buffalo missed their loss, another red and black baby kicked helplessly on the grass and set up vain week calls. And at last lay still, with the hunter's boot tied to his cords. Four, Jones countered them aloud in his mind. Kept on, fast hard work, covering upward of 15 miles, had begun to tell on herd, horse and man, and all slowed down to the call for strength. The fifth time Jones closed in on his game, he encountered different circumstances such as called forth his cunning. The herd had opened up, the mothers had fallen back to the rear. The calves hung almost out of sight under the shaggy sides of protectors. To try them out, Jones started close in and threw his lasso. It struck a cow, with activity incredible and such a huge beast, she lunged at him, Kentucky expecting just such a move, wheeled to safety. This duel, ineffectual on both sides, kept up for a while and all the time, man and herd were jogging rapidly to the north. Jones could not let well enough alone. He acknowledged this even as he swore he must have five. In bolden by his marvelous luck and yielding headlong to the passion within, he threw caution to the winds. A lame old cow with a red cap caught his eye. In he spurred his willing horse and slung his rope. It stung the haunch of the mother. The mad grunch he vetted was no quicker than the velocity with which she plunged and reared. Jones had but time to swing his leg over the saddle when the hoofs beat down. Kentucky rolled on the plane, flinging his rider from him. The infuriated buffalo lowered her head for the fatal charge on the horse when the planesman, jerking out his heavy colts, shot her dead in her tracks. Kentucky got to his feet unhurt and stood his ground, quivering and but ready. Showing his steadfast courage, he showed more for his ears lay back and his eyes had the gleam of the animal that strikes back. The calf ran round its mother. Jones lassoed it and tied it down, being compelled to cut a piece from his lasso as the cords of the saddle had given out. He left his other boot with baby number five. The still heaving smoking body of the victim called forth the stern and trepid hunter's pity for a moment. Spill of blood he had not wanted, but he had not been able to avoid it. And mounting again with close shut jaw and smoldering eye he galloped to the north. Kentucky snorted. The pursuing wolf shied off in the grass. The pale sun began to slant westward. The cold iron stirrups froze and cut the hunter's bootless feet. When once more he came hounding the buffalo, they were considerably winded. Short tufted tails raised stiffly gave warnings, snorts like puffs of escaping steam and deep grunts from cavernous chest. He venced anger and impatience that might at any moment bring the herd to a defiant stand. He whizzed the shortened noose over the head of a calf that was laboring painfully to keep up, and slipped down when a mighty grunt told him of peril. Never looking to see whence a game he sprang into the saddle, fiery Kentucky jumped into action and hauled up with a shock that almost threw himself and the rider. The lasso fast to the horse and its loop end round the calf had caused a sudden check. A madden cow bore down on Kentucky. The gallant horse straightened in a jump, but dragging the calf pulled him in a circle. And another moment he was running round and round, the howling kicking pivot. Then ensued a terrible race with horse and bison, describing a 20 foot circle, bang, bang. The hunter fired two shots and heard the spats of the bullets, but they only augmented the frenzy of the beast. Faster canuck flew, snorting in terror, closer drew the dusty bouncing pursuer. The calf spun like a top, the lasso strung to tighter than wire. Jones strained to loosen the fastening, but in vain. He swore at his carelessness in dropping his knife. By the last calf he had tied, he thought of shooting the rope, yet dared not risk the shot. A hollow sound turned him again. With the colts level, bang, dust flew from the ground beyond the bison. The two charges left in the gun were all that stood between him and eternity. With a desperate display of strength, Jones threw his weight in a backward pull and hauled Kentucky up. Then he leaned far back in the saddle and shoved the colts out beyond the horse's flank. Down with the broad head, with its black glistening horns, bang, she slid forward with a crash, plowing the ground with hoofs and nose. Spotted blood uttered a horse cry, kicked and died. Kentucky, for once completely terrorized, reared and plunged from the cow, dragging the calf. Stern command and iron helm forced him to a standstill. The calf nearly strangled, recovered when the noose was slipped and moaned a feeble protest against life and captivity. The remainder of Jones's lasso went to bind number six and one of his socks went to a serve as a reminder to the persistent wolves. Six, on, on, Kentucky on. Wickening but unconscious of it, with bloody hands and feet without lasso and with only one charge in his revolver, hatless, coatless, vestless, bootless, the wild hunter urged on the noble horse. The herd had gained miles in the interval of the fight. Game to the backbone, Kentucky, lengthened out to overhaul it and slowly, the rolling gap lessened and lessened along our thumped away with the rumbling growing nearer. Once again, the legging calves dotted the grassy plain before the hunter. He dashed beside a burly calf, grasped a tail, stopped his horse and jumped. The calf went down with him and did not come up. The knotted blood-stained hand, like claws of steel, bound the hind legs close and fast with a leatheren belt and left between them a thorn and bloody sock. Seven, on, O faithful, we must have another the last. This is your day. The blood that flecked the hunter was not all his own. The sun slanted westerly toward the purpling horizon. The grassy plain gleamed like a ruffled sea of grass. The gray wolves loped on. When next the hunter came within sight of the herd over a wavy ridge, changes in its shape had movement, met his gaze. The calves were almost done. They could run no more. Their mothers faced the south and trotted slowly to and fro. The bulls were grunting, herding, pining close. It looked as if the herd meant to stand and fight. This mattered little to the hunter, who had captured seven calves since dawn. The first limping calf he reached tried to elude the grasping hand and failed. Kentuck had been trained to wheel to the right or left, in whichever way that his rider leaned. And as Joan bent over and caught the upraised tail, the horse turned to strike the calf with both front hooves. The calf rolled, the horse plunged down, the rider sped beyond to the dust. Though the calf was tired, he still could bellow, and he filled the air with robust balls. Jones all at once saw twenty or more buffalo dash in at him with fast twinkling short legs. With the thought of it, he was in the air to the saddle. As the black round mounds charged from every direction, Kentuck let out with all there was left in him. He leaped and whirled, pitched and swerved, in a roaring, clashing, dusty melee. Bee hoofs threw the turf, flying tails whipped the air, and everywhere were dusky, sharp pointed heads, tossing low. Kentuck squeezed out, unscathed. The mob of bison, bristling, turned to lumber after the mane heard. Jones seized his opportunity and rode after them, yelling with all his might. He drove them so hard that soon the little fellows lagged paces behind. Only one or two old cows straggled with the calves. Then, willing Kentuck, he cut between the herd and a calf, and rode it down. Bewildered, the toss a little bull bellowed in great upright. The hunter seized the stiff tail, and calling to his horse leaped off, but his strength was far spent and the buffalo larger than his fellows thrashed about in jerked-in terror. Jones threw it again and again, but it struggled up, never once ceasing its loud demands for help. Finally the hunter tripped it up and fell upon it with his knees. Above the rumble of retreating hooves, Jones heard the familiar short quick jarring pound on the turf. Kentuck naved his alarm and raced to the right. Bearing down on the hunter, hurtling through the air was a giant furry mass, instinct with fierce life and power, the buffalo cow, robbed of her young, with his senses almost numb, barely able to pull and rise the cold to Plainsman, willed to live and to keep his captive. His leveled arm wavered like a leaf in a storm. Bang! Fires smoke a shock, a jarring crash, and silence. The calf stirred beneath him. He put out a hand to touch a warm furry coat. The mother had fallen beside him. Lifting a heavy hoof, he laid it over the neck of the calf to serve as additional weight. He lay still and listened. The rumble of the herd died away in the distance. The evening waned, still the hunter lay quiet, from time to time the calf struggled and bellowed. Lank gray wolves appeared on all sides. They prowled about with hungry howls and shoved black tip noses through the grass. The sun sank and the sky pale to opal blue, a star shone out, then another, and another. Over the prairie slanted the first dark shadow of night. Suddenly the hunter laid his ear to the ground and listened. Faint beats like throbs of a pulsing heart, shuddered from the soft turf. Stronger they grew till the hunter raised his head. Dark forms approached. Voices broke the silence. The creaking of a wagon scared away the wolves. "'This way,' shouted the hunter weakly. "'Ah, there he is. Heard, cried rude, vaulting the wheel. Buy up this calf. How many did you find?' the voice grew painter. Seven alive and in good shape, and all your clothes.' But the last words fell on unconscious ears.