"Are you afraid?" called Jones from below.
"Yes, but I am coming," I replied, and dismounted to plunge down the hill. It may have been shame or anger that dominated me then; whatever it was I made directly for the cedar, and did not halt until I was under the snarling lion.
"Not too close!" warned Jones. "He might jump. It's a Tom, a two-year-old, and full of fight."
It did not matter to me then whether he jumped or not. I knew I had to be cured of my dread, and the sooner it was done the better.
Old Moze had already climbed a third of the distance up to the lion.
"Hyar Moze! Out of there, you rascal coon chaser!" Jones yelled as he threw stones and sticks at the hound. Moze, however, replied with his snarly bark and climbed on steadily.
"I've got to pull him out. Watch close boys and tell me if the lion starts down."
When Jones climbed the first few branches of the tree, Tom let out an ominous growl.
"Make ready to jump. Shore he's comin'," called Jim.
The lion, snarling viciously, started to descend. It was a ticklish moment for all of us, particularly Jones. Warily he backed down.