Herd after herd of bisons had gone along that ledge road in clumsy safety, but right there now, at the curve of the projecting rock, stood one who could go no farther. A fragment of an arrow still sticking through one of his hind-legs told what had made him lame in the first place, and the marks of wolf-teeth explained why he had grown lamer and lamer until all he could do was to turn his back to the rock and stand at bay. Mile after mile of weary walking and painful struggling the poor old beast had contended with the enemies now swarming around him; they had assailed him always from behind, and they had altogether crippled him. His great, terrible head was lowered threateningly, and his deep, sonorous bellow was thick with pain and fury. The watching coyotes sat down or walked around, barking, yelping, howling, snapping their teeth like castanets, sure of a feast to come and hungrily impatient for its beginning. One, hungrier or bolder than the rest, made a rush too soon, and the quick horn of the old bison caught him. Up, up he went, whirling over and over, and his last yelp went down with him into the deep canon. The head of the bison sank again, and his bloodshot eyes grew filmy; he was faint and sinking, and he swayed staggeringly to and fro. He gave a great lurch forward as his faintness grew upon him, and in an instant he seemed to be all but covered with wolves. They attacked every square foot of him at the same moment, climbing over each other, yelling, tearing, and the bison's time had come. The terror and agony stirred all his remaining life for one last, blinded rush. His instinct was to "charge" and he made one lumbering plunge. The trail at that point afterwards but barely passed the wagon-wheels, and there was no room to spare for the bison's last effort. It bore him heavily, helplessly over the sickening edge, and half a dozen of clinging coyotes went down with him. Hundreds of whirling feet the hunters and the hunted-down bison fell together, to be dashed to pieces upon the rocks at the bottom. A chorus of howls arose from the remaining wolves, but it did not express pity or horror. Only for a moment did they seem to be in doubt as to what was best to be done. After that it was a wolf-race as to which should first get back to the point at which they could safely clamber and tumble to the bottom of the pass. Their feast had been provided for them, and they ate every part of it, buffalo meat and wolf meat alike, with the help of some buzzards, before Two Arrows or any other human being entered the canon to disturb them. Then they followed their prospect of further feasting, and it led them on into the grassy valley.