It rose from low, tremulous, sweetly quavering sighs, to a sound like the last woeful, despairing wail of a woman.

It was the song of the sea sirens and the music of the waves; it had the soft sough of the night wind in the trees, and the haunting moan of lost spirits.
With reluctance I turned my back to the gorgeously changing spectacle of the canyon and crawled in to the rim wall.

At the narrow neck of stone I peered over to look down into misty blue nothingness.
That night Jones told stories of frightened hunters, and assuaged my mortification by saying "buck-fever" was pardonable after the danger had passed, and especially so in my case, because of the great size and fame of Old Tom.
"The worst case of buck-fever I ever saw was on a buffalo hunt I had with a fellow named Williams," went on Jones.

"I was one of the scouts leading a wagon-train west on the old Santa Fe trail.

This fellow said he was a big hunter, and wanted to kill buffalo, so I took him out.