im, and made his life an endless pursuit.

Our guests, the Navajos, departed early, and vanished silently in the
gloom of the desert. We settled down again into a quiet that was broken
only by the low chant-like song of a praying Mormon. 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 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 trai