Billy, the Dog That Made Good 
into range. But shouting to me attracted the 
notice of the Bear, and straight for Bob he charged. 
Many a time before had Yancy faced a Bear, and 
now he had his gun, but perched on a small and 
shaky rotten log he had no chance to shoot, and 
swinging for a clearer view, upraised his rifle with 
a jerk—an ill-starred jerk—for under it the rotten 
trunk cracked, crashed, went down, and Bob fell 
sprawling helpless in among the tumbled logs, 
and now the Grizzly had him in his power. ‘‘Thud,” 
“crash” as the trap-log smote the trees that chanced 
between; and we were horror-held. We had no 
power to stop that certain death: we dared not 
fire, the dogs, the man himself, were right in line. 
The pack closed in. Their din was deafening; 
they sprang on the huge haired flanks, they nipped 
the soggy heels, they hauled and held, and did their 
best, but they were as flies on a badger or as rats 
on a landslide. They held him not a heart-beat, 
delayed him not a whit. The brushwood switched, 
the small logs cracked, as,he rushed, and Bob 
would in a moment more be smashed with that 
fell paw, for now no human help was possible, 
when good old Thunder saw the only way—it 
meant sure death for him—but the only way. 
Ceased he all halfway dashing at the flank or heel 
and leaped at the great Bear’s throat. But one 
136 
