Suddenly the hounds bristled, and old Moze, a surly and
aggressive dog, rose and barked at some real or imaginary desert
prowler. A sharp command from Jones made Moze crouch down, and
the other hounds cowered close together.

"Better tie up the dogs," suggested Jones. "Like as not coyotes
run down here from the hills."

The hounds were my especial delight. But Jones regarded them with
considerable contempt. When all was said, this was no small
wonder, for that quintet of long-eared canines would have tried
the patience of a saint. Old Moze was a Missouri hound that Jones
had procured in that State of uncertain qualities; and the dog
had grown old over coon-trails. He was black and white, grizzled
and battlescarred; and if ever a dog had an evil eye, Moze was
that dog. He had a way of wagging his tail--an indeterminate,
equivocal sort of wag, as if he realized his ugliness and knew he
stood little chance of making friends, but was still hopeful and
willing. As for me, the first time he manifested this evidence of
a good heart under a rough coat, he won me forever.

To tell of Moze's derelictions up to that time would take more
space than would a history of the whole trip; but the enumeration
of several incidents will at once stamp him as a dog of
character, and will establish the fact that even if his
progenitors had never taken any blue ribbons, they had at least
bequeathed him fighting blood. At Flagstaff we chained him in the
yard of a livery stable. Next morning we found him hanging by his
chain on the other side of an eight-foot fence. We took him down,
expecting to have the sorrowful duty of burying him; but Moze