A Bear Hunt Reversed 
In Which Young Eckstein Takes the Pelt After 
a Strenuous Contest 
By WILLIAM PERRY BROWN 
•* W TELL you what, boys,” said Floyd Upshur 
^ to his brother and Will Latham as they 
stood around the Charleston station, wait¬ 
ing for their train, “when you have such a com¬ 
bination as that on a bear stand in the West Vir¬ 
ginia Alleghanies, anything—literally anything— 
is liable to happen.” 
They pensively assented to the remark and 
gloomily watched young Ben Eckstein checking 
his wheel and other impedimenta at the door of 
the one baggage car. Presently Ben came back, 
lighting a cigarette and looking so self-satisfied 
that, to these wiser souls, his behavior savored 
strongly of impudence. 
Ten hours later the four alighted from an ac¬ 
commodation train at Camden-on-Gauley, the in¬ 
significant terminal of a branch road which had 
conveyed the party and its belongings into the 
wilds of Webster and Pocahontas counties. A 
large sawmill, a summer hotel, a few board shan¬ 
ties and a converging vista of woods, gorges and 
tumbling river met their curious eyes. 
Presently a stringy, sunburnt individual in 
leather leggings and wilted corduroys lifted him¬ 
self from a nail keg. He had been examining 
the ears of his dogs for woodticks, but now 
came forward with a “Howdy, boys; powerful 
hot for the time of year.” 
It was Finn Yates, our hired guide, woods 
philosopher, camp cook and friend, there to meet 
us by prior appointment. When he saw fat Ben 
Eckstein carefully removing a bicycle and other 
things from the baggage car, he stared broadly. 
“Eve hearn of airships,” he vouchsafed. 
“Looks to me as if one of them would ha’ been 
more serviceable up here.” 
This, when he had been enlightened somewhat 
as to Ben’s probable intentions. Ben also had a 
small .22 rifle along of which he said : “Good 
thing for squirrels when you big-game hunters 
fail on deer—or bear—see!” 
Mr. Yates grunted non-committally. Eckstein 
was a peg or two beyond him, and he waited 
developments, as Ben deposed further: “Where 
my wheel won’t take me, I take my wheel. I’m 
fat, and I don’t like a heavy gun, anyhow.” 
“Sure, sure, sure,” muttered the guide. “When 
we onct gets up on the plattaw, gents, one won t 
want to fly so bad. But gittin’ thar is trouble¬ 
some. Ever been in these mount’ins before?” 
None of them had, but Ben incautiously owned 
up. However, the guide had an ox cart, and 
managed to transport us and our belongings to 
his shack some miles up on the plateau, whence 
we radiated in different directions day by day 
as our vacation progressed. During a first hunt 
or two Ben pushed his bicycle more than he rode 
it, and kept his small gun airily strapped to his 
fat shoulders. 
This plateau was an elevated, ridgy country, 
marking a wild, wooded region where the Elk, 
Gauley, Little Kanawha, Cheat and other West 
Virginia rivers had their rise. The guide soon 
announced deer sign, and they afterward had 
venison, turkey and rabbit simmering in Yates' 
pots and fry-pans. But small game remained 
rather scarce. Eckstein, finding his popgun com 
paratively useless, took to wandering off by him¬ 
self ; especially after he had blazed away from 
a bear stand one day and rashly wounded one 
of the guide’s best bear dogs. They rigged him 
so unmercifully that finally he took offense. “You 
can all go to thunder,” he at last exclaimed. “I’ll 
hunt and bruise about in my own way—see!” 
This he proceeded to do by mounting his wheel 
and disappearing along one of the many old log 
trails and roads with which this region is every¬ 
where threaded. It is like a labyrinth and about 
as bewildering to unaccustomed travelers. But 
Ben had his .22 strapped to his back and a lunch 
in his haversack, and we did not worry about 
him for many hours. 
These old trails naturally followed the more 
level slopes and Eckstein rather enjoyed the op¬ 
portunity offered for extended pedalling. Occas¬ 
ionally he stopped to take a crack at a barking 
squirrel or a drumming pheasant, and also rest 
himself. By noon he had lost his bearings and 
was looking for a lunching place with cool water 
handy when he rode into a stump-filled clearing 
where the ruined shed of an old sawmill leaned 
above a brawling mountain stream, and the rusty 
shell of a cylinder boiler lay in the deserted mill 
yard. Beyond the boiler was a large, hollow log 
poised over the shelving bank so nearly that Ben 
wondered that it had not rolled into the river. 
He leaned his wheel against the boiler, sat 
down in the shade, ate his lunch, then lying idly 
back, finally fell asleep. When he woke up the 
sun was low in the west and he suddenly realized 
that he was alone and probably lost. Then he 
shook his head, looked idly about and suddenly 
sat bolt upright. 
“Hullo! What is that?” 
The hollow log, one end of which was wobb¬ 
ling violently, hung lower than before over the 
creek. Heavy clawing, scratching sounds min¬ 
gled with the noise of waters. Presently the 
head of a black bear appeared above the log and 
seemed to grin at Ben as he sat there, open- 
mouthed with his back against the old boiler. 
Bruin’s fur was dripping and his red tongue 
hung lazily out, for he had swam or waded the 
creek, climbed the bluff and had nearly over¬ 
balanced the hollow log which was once used to 
shoot sawdust into the stream. The current had 
gradually underminded its bed, so that it stiii 
hung undecidedly to the edge of the bank. 
“I swow!” ejaculated Ben. "Why don t that 
Yates come over here with his dogs—what? I 
think I’ll surprise them boys some yet.” 
Without giving himself time for reflection or 
taking time to rise, Ben pulled down his pepper 
box of a rifle and began popping away at the 
bear’s visage. Only ignorance of the ways of 
woods creatures could have made him so rash. 
But though Ben did not rise, the bear did at the 
first crack. With an angry snarl and a vicious 
clawing he rose to the top of the log in short 
order. Then he made for Ben. 
“When I saw him coming, like an engine what 
has jumped the track, I says to myself—what? 
Time you get away from this place.” Thus 
said Ben afterward to his friends. He knew that 
his popgun was no good, so he threw it away 
and scrambled for his wheel without any clear 
notion, except that he was in a mighty tight 
place. 
“Those bullets have only made him mad. 
What I going to do next?” 
There was no time for regrets or wondering. 
Bruin’s hot breath was warming his very back 
as he jumped on his wheel and pedalled out 
wildly—anywhere. 
The pain-angered animal lumbered after him 
with a sort of swiftness most surprising. Ben 
realized that getting away from the bear and at 
the same time dodging stumps, bushes, roots and 
so on was no easy task after all. For a time it 
was nip and tuck as he circled round the two or 
three acres of clearing with stream and mill on 
one side and the thick undergrowth on the other. 
Round and round Eckstein wheeled, seeking for 
the outlet of the old timber road, but somehow 
he could not find it. To strike through the 
woods without any path was too much like giv¬ 
ing the bear an advantage, wheel or no wheel. 
So he stuck to the clearing and the bear stuck 
to Ben. More than that, the beast began to take 
short cuts as Eckstein circled the edge of the 
clearing, his energies absorbed by two things—to 
keep away from the bear, and avoid a header 
among the stumps and hollows. 
As the fat man grew tired the bear improved 
as a sprinter, so that Ben was at last obliged to 
scramble from his bicycle and dodge around a 
stump. Bre’r bear stopped for a moment when 
