160 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CEUISEE 



Horace did not even answer. The only one of the 

 trio to carry a revolver, he was bent on making his 

 much-maligned Colt justify its existence. 



But to go gunning for an angry bear not ten feet 

 off the ground with a 38-calibre pistol is distinctly 

 a risky business. Wallace as well as Conway en- 

 deavoured to turn Horace from the attempt. 



"Go on back, Wetherby," yelled his superior, as 

 the axeman approached. ' ' Shoot him from the tree. 

 He'll get you sure now, if you wound him!" 



"I haven't enough cartridges to waste any," was 

 all Horace vouchsafed as he stepped directly under 

 the tree and took careful aim at the beast above. 



A shot sounded and the bear's head snapped to 

 one side as if struck sharply with a club, his great 

 muscles relaxed and he slid scramblingly down, 

 in the descent his heavy claws ripping long, deep 

 grooves in the bark of the tree. 



Horace circled about, excited but alert, waiting 

 to put five more soft-nosed bullets if necessary in 

 the carcass of the wounded animal. A moment's 

 inspection showed that they were not needed. The 

 first ball, entering behind the ear, had penetrated 

 the thin coating of muscle there, cracked through 

 the skull, and pierced the brain. It was a perfect 

 shot. 



"I didn't know you had it in you, Horace," 

 grinned Conway, as he slapped the delighted marks- 

 man on the back. And Wallace, with a silence more 



