It belonged to old Moze.

Soon I distinguished a rattling of stones and the sharp, metallic clicks of hoofs striking rocks.

Then into a space below me loped a beautiful deer, so large that at first I took it for an elk.
Another sharp bark, nearer this time, told the tale of Moze's dereliction.

In a few moments he came in sight, running with his tongue out and his head high.
"Hyah, you old gladiator! hyah! hyah!" I yelled and yelled again.

Moze passed over the saddle on the trail of the deer, and his short bark floated back to remind me how far he was from a lion dog.
Then I divined the meaning of the shotgun reports.