shook himself, wagged his tail and then pitched into the livery
stable dog. As a matter of fact, fighting was his forte. He
whipped all of the dogs in Flagstaff; and when our blood hounds
came on from California, he put three of them hors de combat at
once, and subdued the pup with a savage growl. His crowning feat,
however, made even the stoical Jones open his mouth in amaze. We
had taken Moze to the El Tovar at the Grand Canyon, and finding
it impossible to get over to the north rim, we left him with one
of Jones's men, called Rust, who was working on the Canyon trail.
Rust's instructions were to bring Moze to Flagstaff in two weeks.
He brought the dog a little ahead time, and roared his
appreciation of the relief it to get the responsibility off his
hands. And he related many strange things. most striking of which
was how Moze had broken his chain and plunged into the raging
Colorado River, and tried to swim it just above the terrible
Sockdolager Rapids. Rust and his fellow-workmen watched the dog
disappear in the yellow, wrestling, turbulent whirl of waters,
and had heard his knell in the booming roar of the falls. Nothing
but a fish could live in that current; nothing but a bird could
scale those perpendicular marble walls. That night, however, when
the men crossed on the tramway, Moze met them with a wag of his
tail. He had crossed the river, and he had come back!

To the four reddish-brown, high-framed bloodhounds I had given
the names of Don, Tige, Jude and Ranger; and by dint of
persuasion, had succeeded in establishing some kind of family
relation between them and Moze. This night I tied up the
bloodhounds, after bathing and salving their sore feet; and I
left Moze free, for he grew fretful and surly under restraint.