In desperate haste he tore off his bed-gown. He girded himself in the manlier garments. He made a final trial—a supreme test of his muscle—and—b-o-o-s-t-e-d the rifle over the hooks!
Remembering to keep the barrel pointed from him and to guard the trigger, he toiled at white heat and dragged the thing up the ladder, "'Cause there may be trouble, and if there is trouble a high spot is the place for me."
He took a peep. The thief had already thrown away another armload, at the same place in the fence, almost under the window. She was in the field.
When she came back again she would be very close to him. He knew he could hit her. He meant to swing the rifle to his shoulder and to take careful aim. He braced his feet. He made the start. But he could not—he could not—positively could not raise that gun to his shoulder. It was more than five feet long and weighed a dozen pounds.
But nothing could stop him now. "I'll have to set it on a rest."
He pulled an old spinning-wheel close to the window. The bar held the gun at an angle, sloping downward. The distaff kept the butt from slipping. He sighted along the barrel's shining steel, training it on the length of fence where the bear was sure to come.
There was a queer thumping under his galluses. "I can't point it at her. But—if—she—gets—in—range—"
He held his eye on the sight and waited. He waited and waited and waited and waited. He grew numb with crouching and goose-fleshed with suspense.