Shooting a Grizzly 



The bear returned snarling and growling to the tree. 

 He reached up almost to the lower branches, and with 

 a few emphatic pats of his paws ripped bark and wood 

 out of that old trunk as though it were made of cheese. 

 Then he started to bite it. If it had not been for the 

 timely crack of my friend's rifle from another quarter, 

 I veritably believe he would have gnawed that tree down 

 in six bites. 



The bear started again for the flash of the gun. After 

 jumping a few yards toward the bushes from which 

 the bullet came, he fell down. I shook the branches 

 of the tree again and repeated my hurrah. The bear 

 jumped to his feet and came toward the tree. He was 

 limping badly. I could hear Dave make another spurt 

 through the mountain laurel to a new point of vantage. 

 The way he was running around he must have been 

 trying to make the bear think that there were five or 

 six men firing at him. Again from a bush the rifle 

 cracked. This time the bear squalled and rolled over 

 and over, trying to strike at the small of his back with 

 his fore-paws. He rolled into the water, then got up 

 and gave himself a shake. Limping off over the stony 

 bed of the brook, he finally disappeared in the bushes on 

 the other side. I could hear him grumbling and whining 

 as he scrambled up the steep side of the mountain. 



Fearing that a yell to David would attract the bear's 

 attention and call it back to the tree, I gave a low whistle. 

 Dave answered in kind, and in a minute or two appeared 

 sneaking along as if stepping on eggs, with his gun cocked 

 and at the ready, darting his sharp little eyes at every 

 corner in the growing dusk. 



" Where is he ?" whispered David. 



" He's gone up the mountain on the other side," I 

 replied, as I slid stiflly down the trunk of the faithful 

 Cottonwood. 



97 G 



