His First Lion

HIS FIRST LION By Will Dobson After the lambing was over and the lambs had all be marked and docked, the sheep were moved from the lambing grounds into Prospect valley. Harvey's camp-boss stayed with him two days to help bold the herd in the valley. Then with a joy he could not hide, he hitched to the light camp wagon and rattled merrily off to the com- forts and pleasures of town, forty-eight miles away. "Back in ten days!" had been his parting shout. But Harvey knew him too well to expect any such miracle. He was always promising to be, "back in ten days," and returning in anywhere from two to three weeks. The apologies and explanations were always ample, if sometimes rather "fishy." So now Harvey Walton was left alone with the herd. This had been his first experience with sheep, and through the shearing and lambing season it had been hard work with little sleep. But his uncle, owner of the herd, had promised him an easy and pleasant summer in a wonderful country. Now he found the promise coming true. After the close-cropped rocky desolation of the lambing ground. Prospect valley was a revelation. The camp-boss called it all "feed," but to Harvey it was glorious summer foliage and flowers. Until the herd had come, there had been no animals save three or four out- law steers and as many mustang horses, the tracks of which could be seen once in a while, but so far not a glimpse of the track makers. So Prospect valley had been allowed to grow in the warm spring sunshine undisturbed, until now the early June found it a fairyland of vendure and blossom. In the little sharp hollows leading into the valley on all sides were cool, dark bowers of birch and oak with clematis falling in flowering cascades from the branches and a carpet of rank-growing grass and flowers through which trickled little pebbly bottomed streamlets. On the more open stretches of the valley floor were fields of pea-vines and meadows of red-top and timothy hedged about with thickets and irregular walls and fences of wild roses. These were now in full bloom, and the billowing pink stretched in glorious freshness and grace far up the valley to blend in the distance with the equally gorgeous pink of the Pink cliffs to the north, and down the valley to where the walls of white sandstone narrowed to form Deer Spring gap. It was a fresh delight, every morning, to waken to the peace- ful, contented bleat of the ewes and lambs, the tinkle of the bells that spoke of quiet browsing, and the full chorus of the birds that

2 74 IMPROVEMENT ERA sang from every thicket. No more did he have to hustle out at day- break and get around a wandering, discontented herd. So rich was the feed that they would not travel at all. There was nothing to do but watch for coyotes and cats, with once in awhile a trip around all the tracks to see that no little bunch had managed to stray off and get lost. "And I get real money for enjoying all this," he marvelled. "The good old Uncle is paying me hard coin "for taking the vacation of my life. Oh, well; I earned it all while we were shearing and lambing. 'You little bird that somewhere yonder sings 'In the dim hour 'twixt dreams and dawn — ' I'll bet that poet was a sheep herder and was camped right here when he got that great stuff off. I know he was: I can hear the very same bird. 'I think you must be more than bird — ' and that's the eternal truth. Whether that bird knows it or not, it's certainly singing an angel song. But I'm going fishing to- day. Time to arise." Breakfast over, and a light lunch prepared, Harvey got out the fishing tackle which all sheep camps in that region kept on hand, took up the camp rifle and with the faithful and intelligent camp dog "Jeff,"at his heels set off up the valley toward the Pink cliffs. He finally decided to leave the valley floor and follow up a ridge. There was no getting through the rank thickets and tangles of shubbery. The ridge proved more open and he finally came upon a trail that led him up the crest of the ridge to the break in the Pink ledges through which he had been told he must climb. Here he found a half-mile of stiff climbing, then he was on top of the wonderful Pink cliffs through which is cut, less than ten miles away from where Harvey stood, the tinted tracery of Bryce's canyon. With the enthusiasm of the climber, he sought the highest point. Here the glories of the panorama held him long. To the south, terrace after terrace dropped away toward the distant Colorado. In the middle distance lay the blue Kaibab, the wonderful "sleeping mountain," as the Indians had named it. Far off to the southeast, almost the width of a state away, a purple peak stood out from the translucent lavenders and helio- tropes of the Painted desert. This he had been told was Navajo moun- tain, standing apart in a land where few white men had been allowed to explore. Between himself and that mighty desert dweller, he knew there lay a land of deep box canyons, of ruins of rude homes built before history's dawn, of natural bridges, of petrified forests, of rivers that ran on sands of gold, and of outlaws whose names were the terror of more states than one. Looking westward he could see the sharp outlines, ethereal in the morning sunshine, of the cliffs of Little Zion. Back of him, the forest cover lay dark and cool and inviting. He was now over the divide that separates the Great Basin from the Colorado river basin. A half-mile walk brought him to the stream for which he had made

HIS FIRST LION 273 the climb, and to a day of fishing where the problem was to keep from taking to camp more than he could eat before they should spoil. All the way down the ridge on his homeward trip from the day's fishing, Harvey kept repeating to himself," — the end of a perfect day." He would hold up his string of speckled beauties and study them with deep satisfaction as he remembered the fight they had put up. He would gaze off into space, or contemplate the peaceful pros- pect with an equal satisfaction. "Yes," he said again to himself, with a final conviction, "this is truly the end of a perfect day. I had heard of them. Now I know what they are like." Just then "Jeff," the dog, stopped suddenly from his inquisitive sniffing of the trail to give a deep growl, followed by a whimper of fear. His bristles stood on end. After seemingly, studying the little thicket in the deep hollow below them with deep anxiety, he circled about Harvey uneasily, whining his dread to his master. Harvey with a stiffening of the backbone that corresponded to the raising of Jeff's bristles, threw his rifle to position for use and cautiously worked his way down the steep slope into the hollow. Among the birch of the hollow stood one great oak with far- spread branches and dense foliage. It was dark in there, and a little gurgling streamlet seemed to be telling some weird gossip in a con- fidential undertone. There was real awe in Harvey's breathless and soundless invasion of the dark depths. There was a real thrill of terror in the start he gave when his peering eyes finally made out some black form beneath the great tree. With steady nerves, but with a slight crinkling of the scalp and back, he held his eyes on the black outline and began a slow, alert advance. It proved to be merely a fresh-killed black mustang. But the manner in which he had met his death, as Harvey studied it out, gave the boy cause for serious thought. It was evident that some animal which, from the tracks, Harvey de- cided was a mountain lion, had dropped on the back of the black mus- tang from the limb of the oak tree. There were the marks of a terrific struggle on the brush and weeds of the thicket. The horse's throat had been eaten into right up to the bones of the neck. Harvey couldn't help wondering what would have happened if he, instead of the horse, had been the one to come under that oak limb. The thought cast a slight chill on the day he had called perfect. Another thought no more pleasant came to him. That lion would be certain to get into the herd. The damage it would do would be fearful. He had been told of such cases, where sheep had been killed by the hundred by one lion at one time. They kill as the cat plays with the mouse, just for the fun of it. He tried to track the big beast, but could not in the grass and weeds. So he went on to camp with a sober reso- lution to be more watchful of the herd and to be ready for the lion when it should come. There had come a slight cloud over the sun,

276 IMPROVEMENT ERA and the lone boy felt that all the joy had gone out of what he had been calling a perfect day. Perhaps, after all, there are no perfect days. He had no desire for the supper of fried fish on which he had been doting while the day seemed perfect. So he went around the tracks of the herd carefully, gathered some wood for the morning, gave the rifle a careful and wholly superfluous cleaning and oiling, tested the sights and his aim with special care and great seriousness, and finally built up a fire and tried to read. But the old magazine didn't have its usual interest for him, and he finally went to bed. Here he lay and pictured the lion in his herd, and his job of shooting him. Harvey had never seen a mountain lion, and those who had told him of them had naturally tried to add to the interest of their stories by making them as near hair-raising as possible. He had been used to a gun all his life; but only the past few, months had been shooting a heavy rifle. He wondered if he could keep his nerves steady. Won- dering if he could keep his nerves steady. Wondering he went off to sleep, the deep slumber of active life in the open air. It was only the grey dawn when a gust of bleating ewes and lambs and jangling of bells wakened him. The lion! Something was stampeding the herd. It could be nothing else. He slipped into his overalls, pulled on his heavy shoes, hurriedly wrapped the laces around his ankles and tied them, not stopping to do any lacing, grab- bed the rifle and ran for the bed ground. As he ran he threw a cart- ridge from the rifle magazine into the firing chamber. Then through nervousness he worked the leaver again, throwing that cartridge out and another in. "That won't do," he thought, and he tried to get better con- trol of himself. The bed-ground was fed off and he could see the lion. It seemed merely to be playing with the sheep. But coming closer, he could see the nature of the play. With a kittenish leap, the beast would pounce on a ewe or lamb, throw it down, eat its way with savage little throaty growls into the sheep's throat, chewing and growling as long as the victim struggled, then when the sheep went limp, leaving it for another.. This was what Harvey must stop. He must save every possible sheep. He began yelling as he ran, and the terrified Jeff, still whimper- ing on the bed in camp, answered with a mournful howl. At this the lion paused to look and listen. As it straightened up to a listening attitude, Harvey's heart skipped a beat to see how tall it stood and what a figure of power it was standing there in the dawn. "Now, while he is still, is my chance," he thought, and put his rifle to his shoulder for a careful aim at the full breast. Where the dark sides shaded to yellow, and then to a light cream in the middle of the breast, he tried to hold his sights. The animal ap- peared not the least afraid — only curious as to the strange visitor and his strange actions. He seemed almost friendly standing there

HiS FIRST LION 2f 7 gently swinging his long tail. It was only by remembering the bleed- ing sheep and the mutilated mustang that Harvey could bring him- self to pull the trigger. With a final tightening of his muscles on the rifle, he fired. The big beast made not a sound. There was a sudden, sur- prised spring almost straight into the air, a frenzied biting at its breast as it whirled round and round, then a wild, blind dash right toward Harvey, and the animal dropped in a limp heap. Harvey watched it nervously for a time. He wouldn't shoot again for fear of spoiling the hide. Finally he edged closer, jabbed the limp carcass tentatively with the rifle, and knew for a certainty that it was dead. "And one shot did it," he thought with pride as he measured the distance from where he had stood to where the lion had been standing. He found it had been two hundred yards. Then his thought was to measure the animal. By stepping carefully he decided it meas- ured about twelve feet from nose to tip of tail. This he afterwards found was not far out. Forgetting the fish he had planed to fry for breakfast he rounded up the wandering sheep, held them until they quieted, then proceeded with a vast satisfaction to skin his first lion. "A perfect day," he mumbled to himself with a chuckle, "now I do know what they mean when they boast of a perfect day." The Laggard's Lament The sun is setting now behind the ocean far away, And I am taking notes of what I haven't done today. I haven't cheered a lonely heart nor raised my voice above. To sing aloud with joy and praise the glories of God's love. I haven't visited the sick, nor set the captive free, Nor have I brought a soul to Christ where all the ransomed be. Nor entered in my memory book the name of a dear friend, To whom in sorrow, pain or grief, some comfort I should send. I haven't cheered one lonely soul, nor helped him bear his load, As up the steep, steep hill of life he tottered on the road. I haven't set he sinner free, nor brought him to the Lord, Though I could give him courage by a single, cheerful word. And so my heart is heavy, my own great cross I feel, I faint beneath my own great load as now in prayer I kneel. How can I consciously ask the Lord to help me through, When I refuse to help a soul to find his Savior true. 0 give me back those blessed days when I soothed a heart bowed down, 1 helped a neighbor bear his cross that I might wear a crown. There is reward for our good deeds, as we pass life's road along, And virtue is its own reward, 'tis glory to be strong. Oakland, California. ANNIE G. LAURITZEN.