160 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
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!’’ 
“‘T 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. 
“‘T 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 
