Before we had a moment to speak, much less form a plan of attack, the lion rose, spat at us defiantly, and deliberately jumped off the crag. We heard him strike with a frightful thud.
Surprise held us dumb. To take the leap to the slope below seemed beyond any beast not endowed with wings. We saw the lion bounding down the identical trail which the other lion had taken. Jones came out of his momentary indecision.
"Hold the dogs! Call them back!" he yelled hoarsely. "They'll kill the lion we tied! They'll kill him!"
The hounds had scattered off the bench here and there, everywhere, to come together on the trail below. Already they were in full cry with the matchless Don at the fore. Manifestly to call them back was an injustice, as well as impossible. In ten seconds they were out of sight.
In silence we waited, each listening, each feeling the tragedy of the situation, each praying that they would pass by the poor, helpless, bound lion. Suddenly the regular baying swelled to a burst of savage, snarling fury, such as the pack made in a vicious fight. This ceased—short silence ensued; Don's sharp voice woke the echoes, then the regular baying continued.
As with one thought, we all sat down. Painful as the certainty was it was not so painful as that listening, hoping suspense.
"Shore they can't be blamed," said Jim finally. "Bumping their nose into a tied lion that way—how'd they know?"
"Who could guess the second lion would jump off that quick and run back to our captive?" burst out Jones.
"Shore we might have knowed it," replied Jim. "Well, I'm goin' after the pack."
He gathered up his lasso and strode off the bench. Jones said he would climb back to the rim, and I followed Jim.