Hunting the Grisly 131 



In the summer of 1888 an old-time trapper, 

 named Charley Norton, while on Loon Creek, 

 of the middle fork of the Salmon, meddled 

 with a she and her cubs. She ran at him and 

 with one blow of her paw almost knocked 

 off his lower jaw; yet he recovered, and was 

 alive when I last heard of him. 



Yet the very next spring the cowboys with 

 my own wagon on the Little Missouri round 

 up killed a mother bear which made but little 

 more fight than a coyote. She had two cubs, 

 and was surprised in the early morning on the 

 prairie far from cover. There were eight or 

 ten cowboys together at the time, just starting 

 off on a long circle, and of course they all got 

 down their ropes in a second, and putting 

 spurs to their fiery little horses started toward 

 the bears at a run, shouting and swinging 

 their loops round their heads. For a moment 

 the old she tried to bluster and made a half 

 hearted threat of charging; but her courage 

 failed before the rapid onslaught of her yell 

 ing, rope-swinging assailants; and she took 

 to her heels and galloped off, leaving the cubs 

 to shift for themselves. The cowboys were 

 close behind, however, and after half a mile s 

 run she bolted into a shallow cave or hole in 

 the side of a butte, where she stayed cowering 



