A BEAR HUNT. 



OLD SILVERT1P. 



We had pitched our tent on a small 

 stream known as the Mee-tee-tsie. We were 

 in the Mole hills for the purpose of getting 

 a bear, and we meant to have one if pos- 

 sible. My partner had just bought a 45"70- 

 405 Winchester repeater, and on the way 

 to our camping ground he had urged me to 

 try his rifle on the first bear we saw. I 

 have no faith in a repeater and do not like 

 to use a strange rifle on game. When a 

 man tackles one of these Western bears 

 he takes his life in his hand. They are 

 not like their Eastern brothers, that one 

 can kill with a shot gun. God only knows 

 what possessed my pard to take his gun 

 apart that night, or why I used it the next 

 day. The next morning, the first in camp, 

 I went down to the creek for water and 

 saw a bear trail. I rushed to the tent, told 

 pard how it happened and where the creek 

 and buckets could be found; then took his 

 gun and started. The trail was so fresh 

 that I expected to kill the bear and get 

 back in time for breakfast. I followed that 

 trail 5 miles. Then I found him. It 

 was not the kind of bear I wanted. It was 

 a baldface, or roachmane, and they can 

 put up a better fight that any other kind 

 in North America. They are always on the 

 "prod." I had no faith in the gun I car- 

 ried and I had found what I hadn't lost. 

 The brute had either seen, heard or winded 

 me, for he was headed my way. His hair 

 was uncombed, and standing on end. His 

 eyes flashed fire, and why he passed our 

 tent without giving us a call, I can never 

 tell. About 10 feet from me was a fine 

 tree to play "Jack and the bean-stalk" on. 

 Thank God, these animals can't climb. We 

 were about 75 yards apart.. "Now I'll put 

 a bullet between his eyes," I said to myself. 

 Where my bullet went, I never knew. 

 Then something sounded like a steam- 

 whistle let loose, and I saw a red cave 



fringed with black coming my way. To 

 say I pumped that gun for another 

 cartridge would be putting it mildly; and 

 it stuck ! One look at that mammoth cave, 

 and one at the tree. I took the tree. The 

 game changed ; hunter up the tree ; bear 

 and gun on ground. There I was, and 

 there I staid, with the bear below. The 

 day came to an end. The part of me that 

 I use to sit on grew sore, and every move 

 I made brought a growl from below. 

 One good thing, no human being was there 

 to see the show, but I wished one 

 would come that way. As the sun went 

 down behind the hill a new danger stared 

 me in the face. If I dozed, and fell off the 

 limb, it meant death. Then again, the air 

 was getting cold, and I was chilly. Twice 

 during the night I could see the 

 bear's eyes shining below me, and I 

 knew he was still there,. How often I 

 climbed up and down that tree and around 

 it to keep myself from going to sleep or 

 getting cold, I have no idea. I tried to lash 

 myself to the tree with my cartridge belt, 

 but it was too short. When daylight came, 

 the bear had gone. I never left the tree 

 until it was good and light. My first move 



was to get that rifle. There is always 



the last straw to a load, and I found it. 

 The blamed thing worked all right. Had 

 I been sure I should not need it before 

 getting to camp I should have broken 

 it. However, I pumped a cartridge in- 

 to the barrel and started back. I met my 

 partner on his way out to look for me. 

 After I had expressed myself to my heart's 

 content, he looked at me serenely and said : 



"Joe, I forgot to put in the pin that 

 holds the finger lever in its place with the 

 breechbolt." 



Ye gods! All night up a tree for the 

 want of a pin ! 



Brakeman — Now, then, miss, get in 

 quickly, please. The train is about to start. 



Young Lady — But I want to give my 

 sister a kiss. 



Brakeman — Get in ! Get in ! I'll attend 

 to that for you. — Exchange. 

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