Then old Moze, he of Grand Canyon fame, made the delirious antics of his canine fellows look cheap.

There was a small, dead pine that had fallen against a drooping branch of the tree Kitty had taken refuge in, and up this narrow ladder Moze began to climb.

He was fifteen feet up, and Kitty had begun to shift uneasily, when Jones saw him.
"Hyar! you wild coon hyar! Git out of that! Come down! Come down!" But Jones might have been in the bottom of the canyon for all Moze heard or cared.

Jones removed his coat, carefully coiled his lasso, and began to go hand and knee up the leaning pine.
"Hyar! dad-blast you, git down!" yelled Jones, and he kicked Moze off.
The persistent hound returned, and followed Jones to a height of twenty feet, where again he was thrust off.
"Hold him, one of you!" called Jones.
"Not me," said Frank, "I'm lookin' out for myself." "Same here," I cried, with a camera in one hand and a rifle in the other.

"Let Moze climb if he likes." Climb he did, to be kicked off again.