The Last of the Plainsmen | Page 4

has been my destiny--what a happy
fulfillment of my dreams of border spirit!--to live for a while in the
fast-fading wild environment which produced these great men with the
last of the great plainsmen.
ZANE GREY.

CONTENTS
1. THE ARIZONA DESERT 2 THE RANGE 3. THE LAST HERD 4.
THE TRAIL 5. OAK SPRING 6. THE WHITE MUSTANG 7.
SNAKE GULCH 8. NAZA! NAZA! NAZA! 9. THE LAND OF THE
MUSK-OX 10. SUCCESS AND FAILURE 11. ON TO THE SIWASH

12. OLD TOM 13. SINGING CLIFFS 14. ALL HEROES BUT ONE
15. JONES ON COUGARS 16. KITTY 17. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER 1.
THE ARIZONA DESERT
One afternoon, far out on the sun-baked waste of sage, we made camp
near a clump of withered pinyon trees. The cold desert wind came
down upon us with the sudden darkness. Even the Mormons, who were
finding the trail for us across the drifting sands, forgot to sing and pray
at sundown. We huddled round the campfire, a tired and silent little
group. When out of the lonely, melancholy night some wandering
Navajos stole like shadows to our fire, we hailed their advent with
delight. They were good-natured Indians, willing to barter a blanket or
bracelet; and one of them, a tall, gaunt fellow, with the bearing of a
chief, could speak a little English.
"How," said he, in a deep chest voice.
"Hello, Noddlecoddy," greeted Jim Emmett, the Mormon guide.
"Ugh!" answered the Indian.
"Big paleface--Buffalo Jones---big chief--buffalo man," introduced
Emmett, indicating Jones.
"How." The Navajo spoke with dignity, and extended a friendly hand.
"Jones big white chief--rope buffalo--tie up tight," continued Emmett,
making motions with his arm, as if he were whirling a lasso.
"No big--heap small buffalo," said the Indian, holding his hand level
with his knee, and smiling broadly.
Jones, erect, rugged, brawny, stood in the full light of the campfire. He
had a dark, bronzed, inscrutable face; a stern mouth and square jaw,
keen eyes, half-closed from years of searching the wide plains; and

deep furrows wrinkling his cheeks. A strange stillness enfolded his
feature the tranquility earned from a long life of adventure.
He held up both muscular hands to the Navajo, and spread out his
fingers.
"Rope buffalo--heap big buffalo--heap many--one sun."
The Indian straightened up, but kept his friendly smile.
"Me big chief," went on Jones, "me go far north--Land of Little
Sticks--Naza! Naza! rope musk-ox; rope White Manitou of Great Slave
Naza! Naza!"
"Naza!" replied the Navajo, pointing to the North Star; "no--no."
"Yes me big paleface--me come long way toward setting sun--go cross
Big Water--go Buckskin--Siwash--chase cougar."
The cougar, or mountain lion, is a Navajo god and the Navajos hold
him in as much fear and reverence as do the Great Slave Indians the
musk-ox.
"No kill cougar," continued Jones, as the Indian's bold features
hardened. "Run cougar horseback--run long way--dogs chase cougar
long time--chase cougar up tree! Me big chief--me climb tree--climb
high up--lasso cougar--rope cougar--tie cougar all tight."
The Navajo's solemn face relaxed
"White man heap fun. No."
"Yes," cried Jones, extending his great arms. "Me strong; me rope
cougar--me tie cougar; ride off wigwam, keep cougar alive."
"No," replied the savage vehemently.
"Yes," protested Jones, nodding earnestly.

"No," answered the Navajo, louder, raising his dark head.
"Yes!" shouted Jones.
"BIG LIE!" the Indian thundered.
Jones joined good-naturedly in the laugh at his expense. The Indian had
crudely voiced a skepticism I had heard more delicately hinted in New
York, and singularly enough, which had strengthened on our way West,
as we met ranchers, prospectors and cowboys. But those few men I had
fortunately met, who really knew Jones, more than overbalanced the
doubt and ridicule cast upon him. I recalled a scarred old veteran of the
plains, who had talked to me in true Western bluntness:
"Say, young feller, I heerd yer couldn't git acrost the Canyon fer the
deep snow on the north rim. Wal, ye're lucky. Now, yer hit the trail fer
New York, an' keep goint! Don't ever tackle the desert, 'specially with
them Mormons. They've got water on the brain, wusser 'n religion. It's
two hundred an' fifty miles from Flagstaff to Jones range, an' only two
drinks on the trail. I know this hyar Buffalo Jones. I knowed him way
back in the seventies, when he was doin' them ropin' stunts thet made
him famous as the preserver of the American bison. I know about that
crazy trip of his'n to the Barren Lands, after musk-ox. An' I reckon I kin
guess what he'll do over there in the Siwash. He'll rope cougars--sure
he will--an' watch 'em jump. Jones would rope the devil, an' tie him
down if the lasso didn't burn. Oh! he's hell on ropin' things. An' he's
wusser 'n hell on men, an' hosses, an' dogs."