Kitabı oku: «The Prairie Chief», sayfa 5
Chapter Seven.
Big Tim’s Method with Savages
“I sincerely hope,” said the wounded man, with a look of anxiety, “that the plan you speak of does not involve the slaughter of these men.”
“It does not” replied Big Tim, “though if it did, it would be serving them right, for they would slaughter you and me—ay, and even Softswan there—if they could lay hold of us.”
“Is it too much to ask the son of my old friend to let me know what his plans are? A knowledge of them would perhaps remove my anxiety, which I feel pressing heavily on me in my present weak condition. Besides, I may be able to counsel you. Although a man of peace, my life has been but too frequently mixed up with scenes of war and bloodshed. In truth, my mission on earth is to teach those principles which, if universally acted on, would put an end to both;—perhaps I should have said, my mission is to point men to that Saviour who is an embodiment of the principles of Love and Peace and Goodwill.”
For a few seconds the young hunter sat on the floor of the cave in silence, with his hands clasped round his knees, and his eyes cast down as if in meditation. At last a smile played on his features, and he looked at his questioner with a humorous twinkle in his eyes.
“Well, my white father,” he said, “I see no reason why I should not explain the matter to my daddy’s old friend; but I’ll have to say my say smartly, for by the stamping and yells o’ the rep—o’ the Blackfeet overhead, I perceive that they’ve got hold o’ my case-bottle o’ rum, an’ if I don’t stop them they’ll pull the old hut down about their ears.
“Well, you must know that my daddy left the settlements in his young days,” continued Big Tim, “an’ took to a rovin’ life on the prairies an’ mountains, but p’r’aps he told you that long ago. No? Well, he served for some time at a queer sort o’ trade—the makin’ o’ fireworks; them rediklous things they call squibs, crackers, rockets, an’ Roman candles, with which the foolish folk o’ the settlements blow their money into smoke for the sake o’ ticklin’ their fancies for a few minutes.
“Well, when he came here, of course he had no use for sitch tomfooleries, but once or twice, when he wanted to astonish the natives, he got hold o’ some ’pothicary’s stuff an’ wi’ gunpowder an’ charcoal concocted some things that well-nigh drove the red men out o’ their senses, an’ got daddy to be regarded as a great medicine-man. Of course he kep’ it secret how he produced the surprisin’ fires—an’, to say truth, I think from my own experience that if he had tried to explain it to ’em they could have made neither head nor tail o’t. For a long time arter that he did nothin’ more in that way, till one time when the Blackfeet came an’ catched daddy an’ me nappin’ in this very hut and we barely got off wi’ the scalps on our heads by scrambling down the precipice where the reptiles didn’t like to follow. When they left the place they took all our odds an’ ends wi’ them, an’ set fire to the hut. Arter they was gone we set to work an’ built a noo hut. Then daddy—who’s got an amazin’ turn for inventin’ things—set to work to concoct suthin’ for the reptiles if they should pay us another visit. It was at that time he thought of turnin’ this cave to account as a place o’ refuge when hard pressed, an’ hit on the plan for liftin’ the big stone easy, which no doubt you’ve obsarved.”
“Yes; Softswan has explained it to me. But what about your plan with the Indians?” said the preacher.
“I’m comin’ to that,” replied the hunter. “Well, daddy set to work an’ made a lot o’ fireworks—big squibs, an’ them sort o’ crackers, I forget what you call ’em, that jumps about as if they was not only alive, but possessed with evil spirits—”
“I know them—zigzag crackers,” said the preacher, somewhat amused.
“That’s them,” cried Big Tim, with an eager look, as if the mere memory of them were exciting. “Well, daddy he fixed up a lot o’ the big squibs an’ Roman candles round the walls o’ the hut in such a way that they all p’inted from ivery corner, above an’ below, to the centre of the hut, right in front o’ the fireplace, so that their fire should all meet, so to speak, in a focus. Then he chiselled out a lot o’ little holes in the stone walls in such a way that they could not be seen, and in every hole he put a zigzag cracker; an’ he connected the whole affair—squibs, candles, and crackers—with an instantaneous fuse, the end of which he trained down, through a hole cut in the solid rock, into this here cave; an’ there’s the end of it right opposite to yer nose.”
He pointed as he spoke to a part of the wall of the cavern where a small piece of what seemed like white tape projected about half an inch from the stone.
“Has it ever been tried?” asked the preacher, who, despite his weak and wounded condition, could hardly restrain a laugh as the young hunter described his father’s complicated arrangements.
“No, we han’t tried it yet, ’cause the reptiles haven’t bin here since, but daddy, who’s a very thoroughgoin’ man, has given the things a complete overhaul once a month ever since—’cept when he was away on long expeditions—so as to make sure the stuff was dry an in workin’ order. Now,” added the young man, rising and lighting a piece of tinder at the torch on the wall, “it’s about time that we should putt it to the test. If things don’t go wrong, you’ll hear summat koorious overhead before long.”
He applied a light to the quick-match as he spoke, and awaited the result.
In order that the reader may observe that result more clearly, we will transport him to the scene of festivity in the little fortress above.
As Big Tim correctly surmised, the savages had discovered the hunter’s store of rum just after eating as much venison as they could comfortably consume. Fire-water, as is well known, tells with tremendous effect on the excitable nerves and minds of Indians. In a very few minutes it produced, as in many white men, a tendency to become garrulous. While in this stage the savages began to boast, if possible, more than usual of their prowess in chase and war, and as their potations continued, they were guilty of that undignified act—so rare among red men and so common among whites—of interrupting and contradicting each other.
This condition is the sure precursor of the quarrelsome and fighting stage of drunkenness. They had almost reached it, when Rushing River rose to his feet for the purpose of making a speech. Usually the form of the chief was as firm as the rock on which he stood. At this time, however, it swayed very slightly to and fro, and in his eyes—which were usually noted for the intensity of their eagle glance—there was just then an owlish blink as they surveyed the circle of his braves.
Indeed Rushing River, as he stood there looking down into the upturned faces, observed—with what feelings we know not—that these braves sometimes exhibited a few of the same owlish blinks in their earnest eyes.
“My b–braves,” said the chief; and then, evidently forgetting what he intended to say, he put on one of those looks of astonishing solemnity which fire-water alone is capable of producing.
“My b–braves,” he began again, looking sternly round the almost breathless and expectant circle, “when we left our l–lodges in the m–mountains this morning the sun was rising.”
He paused, and this being an emphatic truism, was received with an equally emphatic “Ho” of assent.
“N–now,” continued the chief, with a gentle sway to the right, which he corrected with an abrupt jerk to the left, “n–now, the sun is about to descend, and w–we are here!”
Feeling that he had made a decided point, he drew himself up and blinked, while his audience gave vent to another “Ho” in tones which expressed the idea—“waiting for more.” The comrade, however, whose veins were fired, or chilled, with the few drops of white blood, ventured to assert his independence by ejaculating “Hum!”
“Bounding Bull,” cried the chief, suddenly shifting ground and glaring, while he breathed hard and showed his teeth, “is a coward. His daughter Softswan is a chicken-hearted squaw; and her husband Big Tim is a skunk—so is Little Tim his father.”
These remarks, being thoroughly in accord with the sentiments of the braves, were received with a storm of “Ho’s,” “How’s,” “Hi’s,” and “Hee’s,” which effectually drowned the cheeky one’s “Hum’s,” and greatly encouraged the chief, who thereafter broke forth in a flow of language which was more in keeping with his name. After a few boastful references to the deeds of himself and his forefathers, he went into an elaborate and exaggerated description of the valorous way in which they had that day stormed the fort of their pale-face enemies and driven them out; after which, losing somehow the thread of his discourse, he fell back on an appallingly solemn look, blinked, and sat down.
This was the signal for the recurrence of the approving “Ho’s” and “Hi’s,” the gratifying effect of which, however, was slightly marred when silence was restored by a subdued “Hum” from the cheeky comrade.
Directing a fierce glance at that presumptuous brave, Rushing River was about to give vent to words which might have led on to the fighting stage, when he was arrested, and, with his men, almost petrified, by a strange fizzing noise which seemed to come from the earth directly below them.
Incomprehensible sounds are at all times more calculated to alarm than sounds which we recognise. The report of a rifle, the yell of a foe, could not have produced such an effect on the savages as did that fizzing sound. Each man grasped his tomahawk, but sat still, and turned pale. The fizzing sound was interspersed with one or two cracks, which intensified the alarm, but did not clear up the mystery. If they had only known what to do they would have done it; what danger to face, they would have faced it; but to sit there inactive, with the mysterious sounds increasing, was almost intolerable.
Rushing River, of all the band, maintained his character for reckless hardihood. He sat there unblenched and apparently unmoved, though it was plain that he was intensely watchful and ready. But the foe assailed him where least expected. In a little hole right under the very spot on which he sat lay one of the zigzag crackers. Its first crack caused the chief, despite his power of will and early training, to bound up as if an electric battery had discharged him. The second crack sent the eccentric thing into his face. Its third vagary brought it down about his knees. Its fourth sent it into the gaping mouth of the cheeky one. At the same instant the squibs and candles burst forth from all points, pouring their fires on the naked shoulders of the red men with a hiss that the whole serpent race of America might have failed to equal, while the other zigzags went careering about as if the hut were filled with evil spirits.
To say that the savages yelled and jumped, and stamped and roared, were but a tame remark. After a series of wild bursts, in sudden and violent confusion which words cannot describe, they rushed in a compact body to the door. Of course they stuck fast. Rushing River went at them like a battering-ram, and tried to force them through, but failed. The cheeky comrade, with a better appreciation of the possibilities of the case, took a short run and a header right over the struggling mass, à la harlequin, and came down on his shoulders outside, without breaking his neck.
Guessing the state of things by the nature of the sounds, Big Tim removed the table from under the ponderous weight, lifted the re-adjusted trap-door, and, springing up, darted into the hut just in time to bestow a parting kick on the last man that struggled through. Running to the breastwork, he beheld his foes tumbling, rushing, crashing, bounding down the track like maniacs—which indeed they were for the time being—and he succeeded in urging them to even greater exertions by giving utterance to a grand resonant British cheer, which had been taught him by his father, and had indeed been used by him more than once, with signal success, against his Indian foes.
Returning to the cavern after the Indians had vanished into their native woods, Big Tim assisted the preacher up the ladder, and, taking him into the hut after the smoke of the fireworks had cleared away, placed him in his own bed.
“You resemble your father in face, Big Tim, but not in figure,” said the missionary, when he had recovered from the exhaustion caused by his recent efforts and excitement.
“My white father says truth,” replied the hunter, with slightly humorous glances at his huge limbs. “Daddy is little, but he is strong—uncommon strong.”
“He used to be so when I knew him,” returned the preacher, “and I dare say the twenty years that have passed since then have not changed him much, for he is a good deal younger than I am—about the same age, I should suppose, as my old friend Whitewing.”
“Yes, that’s so,” said the hunter; “they’re both about five-an’-forty or there-away, though I doubt if either o’ them is quite sure about his age. An’ they’re both beginning to be grizzled about the scalp-locks.”
“Your father, although somewhat reckless in his disposition,” continued the preacher, after a pause, “was a man of earnest mind.”
“That’s a fact, an’ no mistake,” returned Big Tim, examining a pot of soup which his bride had put on the fire to warm up for their visitor. “I doubt if ever I saw a more arnest-minded man than daddy, especially when he tackles his victuals or gets on the track of a grizzly b’ar.”
The missionary smiled, in spite of himself, as he explained that the earnestness he referred to was connected rather with the soul and the spiritual world than with this sublunary sphere.
“Well, he is arnest about that too,” returned the hunter. “He has often told me that he didn’t use to trouble his head about such matters long ago, but after that time when he met you on the prairies he had been led to think a deal more about ’em. He’s a queer man is daddy, an’ putts things to ye in a queer way sometimes. ‘Timmy,’ says he to me once—he calls me Timmy out o’ fondness, you know—‘Timmy,’ says he, ‘if you comed up to a great thick glass wall, not very easy to see through, wi’ a door in it, an’ you was told that some day that door would open, an’ you’d have to go through an’ live on the other side o’ that glass wall, you’d be koorious to know the lie o’ the land on the other side o’ that wall, wouldn’t you, and what sort o’ customers you’d have to consort wi’ there, eh?’
“‘Yes, daddy,’ says I, ‘you say right, an’ I’d be a great fool if I didn’t take a good long squint now an’ again.’
“‘Well, Timmy,’ says he, ‘this world is that glass wall, an’ death is the door through it, an’ the Bible that the preacher gave me long ago is the Book that helps to clear up the glass an’ enable us to see through it a little better; an’ a Blackfoot bullet or arrow may open the door to you an’ me any day, so I’d advise you, lad, to take a good squint now an’ again.’ An’ I’ve done it, too, Preacher, I’ve done it, but there’s a deal on it that I don’t rightly understand.”
“That I do not wonder at, my young friend; and I hope that if God spares me I may be able to help you a little in this matter. But what of Whitewing? Has he never tried to assist you?”
“Tried! He just has; but the chief is too deep for me most times. He seems to have a wonderful grip o’ these things himself, an’ many a long palaver he has wi’ my daddy about ’em. Whitewing does little else, in fact but go about among his people far an’ near tellin’ them about their lost condition and the Saviour of sinners. He has even ventur’d to visit a tribe o’ the Blackfeet, but his great enemy Rushin’ River has sworn to scalp him if he gets hold of him, so we’ve done our best to hold him back—daddy an’ me—for it would be of no use preachin’ to such a double-dyed villain as Rushin’ River.”
“That is one of the things,” returned the preacher, “that you do not quite understand, Big Tim, for it was to such men as he that our Saviour came. Indeed, I have returned to this part of the country for the very purpose of visiting the Blackfoot chief in company with Whitewing.”
“Both you and Whitewing will be scalped if you do,” said the young hunter almost sternly.
“I trust not,” returned the preacher; “and we hope to induce your father to go with us.”
“Then daddy will be scalped too,” said Big Tim—“an’ so will I, for I’m bound to keep daddy company.”
“It is to be hoped your gloomy expectations will not be realised,” returned the preacher. “But tell me, where is your father just now?”
“Out hunting, not far off,” replied the youth, with an anxious look. “To say truth, I don’t feel quite easy about him, for he’s bin away longer than usual, or than there’s any occasion for. If he doesn’t return soon, I’ll have to go an’ sarch for him.”
As the hunter spoke the hooting of an owl was distinctly heard outside. The preacher looked up inquiringly, for he was too well acquainted with the ways of Indians not to know that the cry was a signal from a biped without wings. He saw that Big Tim and his bride were both listening intently, with expressions of joyful expectation on their faces.
Again the cry was heard, much nearer than before.
“Whitewing!” exclaimed the hunter, leaping up and hastening to the door.
Softswan did not move, but continued silently to stir the soup in the pot on the fire.
Presently many footsteps were heard outside, and the sound of men conversing in low tones. Another moment, and a handsome middle-aged Indian stood in the doorway. With an expression of profound sorrow, he gazed for one moment at the wounded man; then, striding forward, knelt beside him and grasped his hand.
“My white father!” he said.
“Whitewing!” exclaimed the preacher; “I little expected that our meeting should be like this!”
“Is the preacher badly hurt?” asked the Indian in a low voice.
“It may be so; I cannot tell. My feelings lead me to—to doubt—I was going to say fear, but I have nothing to fear. ‘He doeth all things well.’ If my work on earth is not done, I shall live; if it is finished, I shall die.”
Chapter Eight.
Netting a Grizzly Bear
As it is at all times unwise as well as disagreeable to involve a reader in needless mystery, we may as well explain here that there would have been no mystery at all in Little Tim’s prolonged absence from his fortress, if it had not been that he was aware of the intended visit of his chum and brother-in-law, Whitewing, and his old friend the pale-faced missionary, and that he had promised to return on the evening of the day on which he set off to hunt or on the following morning at latest.
Moreover, Little Tim was a man of his word, having never within the memory of his oldest friend been known to break it. Thus it came to pass that when three days had passed away, and the sturdy little hunter failed to return, Big Tim and his bride first became surprised and then anxious. The attack on the hut, however, and the events which we have just related, prevented the son from going out in search of the father; but now that the Blackfeet had been effectually repulsed and the fortress relieved by the arrival of Whitewing’s party, it was resolved that they should organise a search for the absentee without an hour’s delay.
“Leetil Tim,” said Whitewing decisively, when he was told of his old friend’s unaccountable absence, “must be found.”
“So say I,” returned Big Tim. “I hope the Blackfoot reptiles haven’t got him. Mayhap he has cut himself with his hatchet. Anyhow, we must go at once. You won’t mind our leaving you for a bit?” he added, turning to the missionary; “we will leave enough o’ redskins to guard you, and my soft one will see to it that you are comfortable.”
“Think not of me,” replied the preacher. “All will go well, I feel assured.”
Still further to guard the reader from supposing that there is any mystery connected with the missionary’s name or Little Tim’s surname, we think it well to state at once that there is absolutely none. In those outlandish regions, and among that primitive people, the forming of names by the mere combination of unmeaning syllables found small favour. They named people according to some striking quality or characteristic. Hence our missionary had been long known among the red men of the West as the Preacher, and, being quite satisfied with that name, he accepted it without making any attempt to bamboozle the children of the woods and prairies with his real name, which was—and is—a matter of no importance whatever. Tim likewise, being short of stature, though very much the reverse of weak or diminutive, had accepted the name of “Little Tim” with a good grace, and made mention of no other; his son naturally becoming “Big Tim” when he outgrew his father.
A search expedition having been quickly organised, it left the little fortress at once, and defiled into the thick woods, led by Whitewing and Big Tim.
In order that the reader may fully understand the cause of Little Tim’s absence, we will take the liberty of pushing on in advance of the search party, and explain a few matters as we go.
It has already been shown that our little hunter possessed a natural ingenuity of mind. This quality had, indeed, been noticeable when he was a boy, but it did not develop largely till he became a man. As he grew older his natural ingenuity seemed to become increasingly active, until his thirst for improving on mechanical contrivances and devising something new became almost a passion. Hence he was perpetually occupied in scheming to improve—as he was wont to say—the material condition of the human race, as well as the mental.
Among other things, he improved the traps of his Indian friends, and also their dwellings. He invented new traps, and, as we have seen, new methods of defending dwellings, as well as of escaping when defence failed. His name, of course, became well known in the Indian country, and as some of his contrivances proved to be eminently useful, he was regarded far and near as a great medicine-man, who could do whatever he set his mind to. Without laying claim to such unlimited powers, Little Tim was quite content to leave the question of his capacity to scheme and invent as much a matter of uncertainty in the minds of his red friends as it was in his own mind.
One day there came to the Indian village, in which he dwelt at the time with his still pretty though matronly wife Brighteyes, one of the agents of a man whose business it was to collect wild animals for the menageries of the United States and elsewhere. Probably this man was an ancestor of Barnum, for he possessed a mind which seemed to be capable of conceiving anything and sticking at nothing. He found a man quite after his own heart when he discovered Little Tim.
“I want a grizzly b’ar,” he said, on being introduced to the hunter.
“There’s plenty of ’em in these parts,” said Tim, who was whittling a piece of wood at the time.
“But I want a full-grown old ’un,” said the agent.
“Well,” remarked Tim, looking up with an inquiring glance for a moment, “I should say there’s some thousands, more or less, roamin’ about the Rockies, in all stages of oldness—from experienced mammas to great-grandmothers, to say nothin’ o’ the old gentlemen; but you’ll find most of ’em powerful sly an’ uncommon hard to kill.”
“But I don’t want to kill ’em; I want one of ’em alive,” said the agent.
At this Little Tim stopped whittling the bit of stick, and looked hard at the man.
“You wants to catch one alive?” he repeated.
“Yes, that’s what’s the matter with me exactly. I want it for a show, an’ I’m prepared to give a good price for a big one.”
“How much?” asked the hunter.
The stranger bent down and whispered in his ear. Little Tim raised his eyebrows a little, and resumed whittling.
“But,” said he, after a few moments’ vigorous knife-work, “what if I should try, an’ fail?”
“Then you get nothing.”
“Won’t do,” returned the little hunter, with a slow shake of the head. “I’m game to tackle difficulties for love or money, but not for nothin’. You’ll have to go to another shop, stranger.”
“Well, what will you try it for?” asked the agent, who was unwilling to lose his man.
“For quarter o’ the sum down, to be kep’ whether I succeed or fail, the balance to be paid when I hand over the goods.”
“Well, stranger,” returned the agent, with a grim smile, “I don’t mind if I agree to that. You seem an honest man.”
“Sorry I can’t return the compliment,” said Little Tim, holding out his hand. “So cash down, if you please.”
The agent laughed, but pulled out a huge leathern bag, and paid the stipulated sum in good undeniable silver dollars.
The hunter at once made preparation for his enterprise. Meanwhile the agent took up his abode in the Indian village to await the result.
After a night of profound meditation in the solitude of his wigwam, Little Tim set to work and cut up several fresh buffalo hides into long and strong lines with which he made a net of enormous mesh and strength. He arranged it in such a way, with a line run round the circumference, that he could draw it together like a purse. With this gigantic affair on his shoulder, he set off one morning at daybreak into the mountains. He met the agent, who was an early riser, on the threshold of the village.
“What! goin’ out alone, Little Tim?” he said.
“Yes; b’ars don’t like company, as a rule.”
“Don’t you think I might help you a bit?”
“No, I don’t. If you stop where you are, I’ll very likely bring the b’ar home to ’ee. If you go with me, it’s more than likely the b’ar will take you home to her small family!”
“Well, well, have it your own way,” returned the agent, laughing.
“I always do,” replied the hunter, with a grin.
Proceeding a day’s journey into the mountains, our adventurous hunter discovered the track of a bear, which must, he thought be an uncommonly large one. Selecting a convenient tree, he stuck four slender poles into the ground, under one of its largest branches. Over these he spread his net, arranging the closing rope—or what we may term the purse-string—in such a way that he could pass it over the branch of the tree referred to. This done, he placed a large junk of buffalo-meat directly under the net, and pegged it to the ground.
Thereafter Little Tim ascended the tree, crept out on the large limb until he reached the spot where the line had been thrown over it, directly above his net. There, seating himself comfortably among the branches, he proceeded to sup and enjoy himself, despite the unsavoury smell that arose from the half-decayed buffalo-meat below.
The limb of the tree was so large and suitable that while a fork of it was wide enough to serve for a table, a branch which grew upwards formed a lean to the hunter’s back, and another branch, doubling round most conveniently, formed a rest for his right elbow. At the same time an abrupt curl in the same branch constituted a rest for his gun. Thus he reclined in a natural one-armed rustic chair, with his weapons handy, and a good supper before him.
“What could a man wish more?” he muttered to himself, with a contented expression of face, as he fixed a square piece of birch-bark in the fork of the branch, and on this platter arranged his food, commenting thereon as he proceeded: “Roast prairie hen. Capital grub, with a bit o’ salt pork, though rather dry an’ woodeny-like by itself. Buffalo rib. Nothin’ better, hot or cold, except marrow-bones; but then, you see, marrow-bones ain’t just parfection unless hot, an’ this is bound to be a cold supper. Hunk o’ pemmican. A safe stand-by at all times. Don’t need no cookin’, an’ a just proportion o’ fat to lean, but doesn’t do without appetite to make it go down. Let me be thankful I’ve got that, anyhow.”
At this point Little Tim thought it expedient to make the line of his net fast to this limb of the tree. After doing so, he examined the priming of his gun, made a few other needful arrangements, and then gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour, smiling benignly to the moon, which happened to creep out from behind a mountain peak at the time, as if on purpose to irradiate the scene.
“It has always seemed to me,” muttered the hunter, as well as a large mouthful of the prairie hen would permit—for he was fond of muttering his thoughts when alone; it felt more sociable, you see, than merely thinking them—“It has always seemed to me that contentment is a grand thing for the human race. Pity we hasn’t all got it!”
Inserting at this point a mass of the hunk, which proved a little too large for muttering purposes, he paused until the road was partially cleared, and then went on—“Of course I don’t mean that lazy sort o’ contentment that makes a man feel easy an’ comfortable, an’ quite indifferent to the woes an’ worries of other men so long as his own bread-basket is stuffed full. No, no. I means that sort o’ contentment that makes a man feel happy though he hasn’t got champagne an’ taters, pigeon-pie, lobscouse, plum-duff, mustard an’ jam at every blow-out; that sort o’ contentment that takes things as they come, an’ enjoys ’em without grumpin’ an’ growlin’ ’cause he hasn’t got somethin’ else.”
Another hunk here stopping the way, a somewhat longer silence ensued, which would probably have been broken as before by the outpouring of some sage reflections, but for a slight sound which caused the hunter to become what we may style a human petrifaction, with a half-chewed morsel in its open jaws, and its eyes glaring.
A few seconds more, and the sound of breaking twigs gave evidence that a visitor drew near. Little Tim bolted the unchewed morsel, hastily sheathed his hunting-knife, laid one hand on the end of his line, and waited.
He had not to wait long, for out of the woods there sauntered a grizzly bear of such proportions that the hunter at first thought the moonlight must have deceived him.
“Sartinly it’s the biggest that I’ve ever clapped eyes on,” he thought but he did not speak or move. So anxious was he not to scare the animal, that he hardly breathed.
