The dogs have gone down.

That lion is in here somewhere.

Maybe he lives down in the high cliffs near the spring and came up here last night for a kill he's buried somewhere.

Lions never travel far.

Hark! Hark! There's Sounder and the rest of them! They've got the scent; they've all got it! Down, boys, down, and ride!" With that he crashed into the cedar in a way that showed me how impervious he was to slashing branches, sharp as thorns, and steep descent and peril.
Wallace's big sorrel plunged after him and the rolling stones cracked.
Suffering as I was by this time, with cramp in my legs, and torturing pain, I had to choose between holding my horse in or falling off; so I chose the former and accordingly got behind.
Dead cedar and pinyon trees lay everywhere, with their contorted limbs reaching out like the arms of a devil-fish.