SINGING CLIFFS Old Tom had rolled two hundred yards down the canyon, leaving a red trail and bits of fur behind him.

When I had clambered down to the steep slide where he had lodged, Sounder and Jude had just decided he was no longer worth biting, and were wagging their tails.

Frank was shaking his head, and Jones, standing above the lion, lasso in hand, wore a disconsolate face.
"How I wish I had got the rope on him!" "I reckon we'd be gatherin' up the pieces of you if you had," said Frank, dryly.
We skinned the old king on the rocky slope of his mighty throne, and then, beginning to feel the effects of severe exertion, we cut across the slope for the foot of the break.

Once there, we gazed up in disarray.

That break resembled a walk of life--how easy to slip down, how hard to climb! Even Frank, inured as he was to strenuous toil, began to swear and wipe his sweaty brow before we had made one-tenth of the ascent.