nder the sun did you run
across that fine game? Say, you sure take the cake, stepping out just to
knock over a couple of long-ears; and then coming back ten minutes later
with a fine antelope on your back. How did you do it, Bob?"

"I don't know," laughed the other. "Happened to start up against the
wind, and was creeping up behind some buffalo berry bushes to see if
there were any jack rabbits beyond, when this little fellow jumped to
his feet. Why he didn't light out when we came along, I never could tell
you."

"Oh! he just knew we wanted a good supper, I reckon," Frank remarked.
"And now to get busy."

It did not take them long to cut some choice bits from the antelope,
which they began to cook at the fire, thrusting the meat through with
long splinters of wood, which in turn were held in a slanting position
in the ground. When one part gave evidence of being browned the novel
spit was turned until all sides had been equally served.

"Remember the way Old Hank showed us how to toll antelope for a shot,
when you can't find cover to get near enough?" asked Frank, as they sat
there, disposing of their supper, with the satisfaction hunger always
brings in its train.

"You mean with the red handkerchief waved over the top of a bush?" Bob
went on. "Hank said there never was a more curious little beast than an
antelope. If he didn't have a red rag a white one would do. Once he said
he just lay down on his back and kicked his heels in the air. The game
ran away, but came back; and each time just a little bit closer, till
Hank could fire, and get his supper. I've done something the same for
ducks, in a marsh back home, trying to draw their attention to the
decoys I had out."

A small stream ran near by, at which the boys and horses had quenched
their thirst. Sometimes its gentle murmur floated to their ears as they
sat there, chatting, and wondering whether their mission to the Grand
Canyon was destined to bear fruit or not.

"I can get the smell of some late wild roses," remarked Frank. "And it
isn't often that you find such things up on one of these high mesas, or
table lands. Do you know, I rather imagine this used to be a favorite
stamping ground for buffalo in those good old days when herds of tens of
thousands could be met with, rolling like the waves of a sea over the
plains."

"What makes you think so?" asked Bob, always seeking information.

"The grass, for one thing," came the reply. "Then I noticed quit