He
hadn't time to put the second foot down else the cat would have got
him. A one-legged Indian! Oh, help!"
"Haw-haw-haw!" mocked Stacy, striding away disgustedly while the shouts
of his companions were ringing in his burning ears.
But the mystery was unsolved. Tad did not believe it ever would be,
though he never ceased puzzling over it for a moment. That day no one
got a lion, though on the second day following Ned Rector shot a small
cat. Tad did not try to shoot. He wandered with Chunky all over the
peaks and through the Canyon in that vicinity trying to rope more lions.
"You let that job out," ordered the guide finally. "Don't you know
you're monkeying with fire? First thing you know you won't know
anything. One of these times a cat'll put you to sleep for a year of
Sundays."
"I guess you are right. Not that I am afraid, but there is no sense
in taking such long chances. I'll drop it. I ought to be pretty well
satisfied with what I have done."
Tad kept his word. He made no further attempts to rope mountain lions.
In the succeeding few days three more cats were shot. It was on the
night of the fourth day after the escape of the captive that at
something very exciting occurred in Camp Butler.
The camp was silent, all its occupants sound asleep, when suddenly they
were brought bounding from their cots by frightful howls and yells of
fear.
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