.

With reluctance I turned my back to the gorgeously changing spectacle
of the canyon and crawled in to the rim wall. At the narrow neck of
stone I peered over to look down into misty blue nothingness.

That night Jones told stories of frightened hunters, and assuaged my
mortification by saying "buck-fever" was pardonable after the danger
had passed, and especially so in my case, because of the great size and
fame of Old Tom.

"The worst case of buck-fever I ever saw was on a buffalo hunt I had
with a fellow named Williams," went on Jones. "I was one of the scouts
leading a wagon-train west on the old Santa Fe trail. This fellow said
he was a big hunter, and wanted to kill buffalo, so I took him out. I
saw a herd making over the prairie for a hollow where a brook ran, and
by hard work, got in ahead of them. I picked out a position just below
the edge of the bank, and we lay quiet, waiting. From the direction of
the buffalo, I calculated we'd be just about right to get a shot at no
very long range. As it was, I suddenly heard thumps on the ground, and
cautiously raising my head, saw a huge buffalo bull just over us, not
fifteen feet up the bank. I whispered to Williams: 'For God's sake,
don't shoot, don't move!' The bull's little fiery eyes snapped, and he
reared. I thought we were goners, for when a bull comes down on
anything with his forefeet, it's done for. But he slowly settled back,
perhaps doubtful. Then, as another buffalo came to the edge of the
bank, luckily a little way from us, the bull turned broadside,
presenting a splendid target. Then I whispered to Williams: 'Now's your
chance. Shoot!' I waited for the shot, but none came. Looking at
Williams, I saw he was white and trembling. Big drops of sweat stood
out on his brow his teeth chattered, and his hands shook. He had
forgotten he carried a rifle."

"That reminds me," said Frank. "They tell a story over at Kanab on a
Dutchman named Schmitt. He was very fond of huntin', an' I guess had
pretty good success after deer an' small game. One winter he was out in
the Pink Cliffs with a Mormon named Shoonover, an' they run into a
lammin' big grizzly track, fresh an' wet. They trailed him to a clump
of chaparral, an' on goin' clear round it, found no tracks leadin' out.
Shoonover said Schmitt commenced to sweat. They went back to the place
where the trail led in, an' there they were, great big silver tip
tracks, bigger'n hoss-tracks, so fresh thet water was oozi