After a three-hours' struggle we came out upon a rough
ledge of granite, a mile below the spot at which we aimed, but near
enough to the top to permit us, after a little more brush fighting, to
gain our camp and lie down, too fatigued to eat.
For another day we remained at this place, hoping that the dogs would
return, but in vain. At last we decided to pack up and go around a
ten-mile detour and work up the outlet of the canyon. We left a mess of
food in several piles for the dogs should they return, and knew they
could follow our horses' tracks if they came to camp.
But our detour was futile. We lost all signs of our pack and returned
to our headquarters to await results.
It was on this homeward journey that we saw the lion of Pico Blanco,
and had to let him slip.
Ten days later, two weak, emaciated hounds came into camp, an old
veteran and a young dog that trailed after him as if tied with a rope.
He had followed him to save his life, and for days after he could not
be separated without whining with fear.
We fed them carefully and nursed them back to health. But these were
all of the five to appear.
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