476 
down the road, and Henry ran to his father with 
the cry of alarm, Tim grabbed the handiest 
weapon, a pitchfork, and telling Henry to “head 
off them oxen,’’ ran to the aid of Trip. 
Tim reached the conflict just in time to see the 
knockout inflicted on the dog, and charged the 
bear with the fork. But the latter had no taste 
for close quarters with his human foe, and, with 
a scrambling leap that took the top rail with him, 
the bear cleared the fence and vanished, a dark 
blur in the gathering night. 
Poor Trip was in evil ways. His little body 
was bent sidewise until head and tail were almost 
together, and there were gashes in his hide where 
bruin’s claws had cut in the impact of the light¬ 
ning-like stroke that rid him of his enemy. Tim 
was about to end the dog’s misery with a merci¬ 
ful blow from the fork handle, when Henry put 
in an appearance and forestalled the doom of his 
faithful friend by gathering Trip in his arms 
and carrying him into the house, where a council 
of the family decided that a live dog was better 
than a dead one. And Trip was given such care 
that in a few weeks he was able to chase squirrels 
and harry woodchucks with nearly his old-time 
vigor, although for a long time he maintained a 
sidling gait, going, as Tim expressed it, “like a 
hog to war.” 
The frosts of autumn, with wondrous alchemy, 
old yet ever new, changed the green attire of the 
forest, and robed the trees in new and startling 
colors. The maples flaunted their red and gold, 
sassafras and hickory shone like gleams of sun¬ 
shine against the red and umber of the oaks, 
sumac on the hillside and in fence-row burst into 
flame, and the towering spires of the tamaracks 
changed their green to yellow, as if hoarding 
sunshine against the approach of winter. 
All the farmers of the neighborhood were busy. 
There was corn to husk, potatoes to dig, rail 
fences to be built around new fields of winter 
wheat, now showing its dark green rankness 
among the stumps of the cleared fields, and be¬ 
neath the tall oaks where the ground had been 
broken and the grain sown before the trees were 
felled. 
Having no crop of his own to harvest, Tim 
Coleman found work among the neighbors, and 
being willing and handy, found his services in 
good demand. Often the pay was in provisions 
for the family, tools for putting in the next 
year’s crop, or feed for the oxen, as money was 
scarce and times hard. On one of these occa¬ 
sions Tim was helping Deacon Campbell dig 
potatoes, when that worthy startled him with the 
inquiry, “Have you paid taxes yet?” 
“No,” Tim replied, “nor thought about it. I 
suppose, though, there’s some taxes on my land, 
and how I’m goin’ to get the money to pay ’em 
is more’n I can tell.” 
“The taxes on your eighty was seven dollars 
and a quarter last year, and I presume they ain’t 
no more now,” said the deacon. But he offered 
no suggestion as to how the payment of the 
sum was to be met. 
The problem of taxes worried Tim not a little 
He had nothing to sell, and the portion of his 
earnings received in money barely sufficed to 
keep the family in clothing and groceries. 
Thus it was that, when helping James Bryson 
haul cornstalks from the field, where the shocks 
presented the appearancs of wigwams, to the 
barn, where the loads were placed in stacks like 
FOREST AND STREAM 
the council house of the Six Nations in Tim’s 
native state of New York, he found courage to 
ask if James could, and would, furnish the 
money to cancel Tim’s obligation to the govern¬ 
ment, and allow the latter to work out the debt 
“I ain’t got the money,” said James; but he 
added, as Tim’s face showed his disappointment, 
“I'll have some when I sell my hogs, but I don’t 
believe they’ll be fat enough to kill before the 
first of the year.” 
“I ’spose taxes has to be paid ’fore then?” 
asked Tim. 
“Yes,” said James, “they’re due now. I’ve got 
three or four deerskins that I’ll take to town 
first time I go, and if I can get cash for ’em 
’stead of trade, I’ll let ye have that, and maybe 
you can scrape up the rest somehow. And if 
you're mind to cut and split me some rails for 
twelve shillin’ ($1.50) a hundred you can pay me 
back that way.” 
“I’ll be glad ’nough to do that, for there ain’t 
no more work in sight now,” Tim replied. And 
thus it came about that part of the tax money 
seemed to be in sight. 
The Nixon swamp bear levied contribution 
rirbt and left that fall, and it seemed that he 
took particular delight in despoiling those of his 
enemies who had been most active against him. 
James Bryson one morning found that the bear 
had descended on his pasture in the night and 
had slain and partly eaten his ram, the patriarch 
of the flock. James watched long and patiently 
for the bear to appear and finish the remains,, 
but the nights passed without his reappearance. 
Again bruin visited the neighborhood, and this 
time upset and despoiled beehives at Hi Mar¬ 
tin’s, to the intense disgust of Granny Martin, 
who took her son to task for failure to rid the 
suffering community of the common enemy. 
“I tell ye, if Grandad was alive,” she declared, 
referring to her deceased husband, “he’d git that 
bear! An he wa’nt more’n half as big as you be. 
But he knowed how to hunt, an’ could shoot, if he 
was a little man. He wa’nt etarnally missin’ 
shots and blamin’ it on to his gun or suthin’, like 
you fellers be.” Meanwhile her son and James 
Bryson looked with dismay on the ruin of the 
beehives and discussed plans for a campaign that 
should prevent future raids. 
“Well, Granny,” said Bryson, “Hi an’ me is 
goin’ to kill that bear or move out of the county, 
an we’re goin’ to do it this winter, soon as it 
freezes up so we can git into the swamp. We’ll 
git John Mount and his hounds and find where 
the bear dens up for winter, and kill him if it 
takes a leg.” 
“I’ll b’lieve it when ye fetch his side home,” 
sniffed Granny. “I’ll bet ye that Coleman feller 
I saw choppin’ over in your lot when I went down 
to see Mis’ Bryson ’tother day could git that bear 
if he was a hunter. He moves ’round spry, and 
chops left-handed, like Grandad did.” 
One chill November day Tim Coleman brought 
his ax to Bryson and solicited the favor of using 
the latter’s grindstone. While the job of putting 
an edge on the implement of warfare against the 
forest was in progress, Tim said: “I’m goin’ to 
cut wood at home the rest of the day. Then in 
the mornin’ I’ll begin on them rails.” 
The following morning Tim left home before 
daylight, and with ax on shoulder, and Trip at 
his heels, started cross lots for his labors. A late 
moon hung in the western sky and shed a faint 
light on field and woodland, while in the east the 
first rays of daylight streaked the horizon. The 
earth lay white and still, covered with frost so 
dense that the herbage creaked beneath Tim’s 
tread, and the biting air presaged winter not 
far off. 
Crossing the fields of the Corey farm, Tim 
entered the woodland and skirted the shore of a 
small pond. As he walked in the open space be¬ 
tween the shore and the timber, Trip, who had 
chased a rabbit into the woods, came charging 
back, hair and ears erect, and took refuge behind 
his master, growling and peering into the shadows 
as if danger threatened therein. 
“What ails ye, pup?” questioned Tim. At that 
moment there rose orf the still air squeals-and 
porcine shrieks, loud and oft-repeated. Startled 
by the sudden clamor, Tim paused for a moment 
and said: “Trip, what do ye s’pose is the matter 
with that hog? Got caught in the fence, maybe. 
Le’s go see.” 
A few rapid steps brought Tim to the edge of 
a field, and in the dim light he saw the source of 
trouble. With a good-sized shoat tightly clasped 
in his forelegs and walking erect on his hind 
feet, was a bear, towering black and threatening 
beside the fence. As he walked away with his 
prey the hog’s snout was close to the bear’s ear, 
and the squeals of the terrified porker drowned 
all sound of Tim’s approach. For a moment Tim 
hesitated, then there shot into his mind the un¬ 
paid taxes, and in the same thought, bounty, sale 
of bearskin and plan of attack. 
Running up behind the bear, which was totally 
unaware of his approach, Tim shouted as though 
giving battle to a human enemy, “put that hog 
down, ye old thief!” and with a blow that had in 
it the skill of the trained woodsman combined 
with desire for revenge, he swung his ax. The 
blow landed just where Tim intended it should 
land, at the top of the skull, and bit its way 
through bone and brain-pan. The big bear sunk 
in his tracks, and without a tremor, so deadly was 
the stroke, lay dead upon the leaves that carpeted 
the woodland earth. 
Trip, who had kept discreetly in the rear of his 
master, gingerly approached the fallen foe, and 
sniffed at the prostrate carcass until one of the 
great paws stirred with the movement of depart¬ 
ing life. Then the dog bounded away as if in 
dread of a repetition of the blow that had, on 
the occasion of his introduction to the bear, 
nearly cost his life. 
Tim walked around his trophy, ax in hand, as 
if doubtful of the reality of his victory. But 
there was the evidence of man’s triumph over 
beast, and the glaring eye, the red tongue lolling 
from the open mouth, the gaping wound in the 
head and the blood-smeared ax blade, all gave 
silent but conclusive testimony that the great 
bear of Nixon's swamp had joined the silent 
majority. 
“What’ll them huntin’ fellers like Bryson and 
Martin say when they find out I’ve killed the 
bear they’ve 'been huntin’ all these years?” in¬ 
quired Tim, addressing Trip for want of other 
audience. “But I guess we better go git one of 
’em to help me git the bear home and skin ’im.” 
So, having looked after the hog, whose coveted 
possession had caused bruin’s downfall, and find¬ 
ing the animal unhurt, save for a few scratches, 
Tim and Trip herded the escaped porker back to 
the pasture, the scene of its capture, and set off 
(Concluded on page 495 .) 
