“Again! give him another shot!”
Giraffe heard this shouted close to his ear, and mechanically working the pump action of the heavy repeating rifle which his father had carried for quite some years on his hunting trips up in the Adirondacks, he again fired.
“Once more, quick! you’ve got him going; but he’s getting up again!” cried Allan, and so Giraffe did as he was told.
Then he did not see the black hairy mass move any more, though he could hardly believe that he had done what he had expressed such a great ambition to accomplish—shoot a real black bear in his native wilds.
“Good! you’ve finished him, Giraffe!” exclaimed Allan, reaching for the quivering hand of his chum, which he squeezed most heartily. “I’m ever so glad I didn’t have to butt in, and spoil it all. That’s your game for keeps, Giraffe. You’ve got to cut a notch in the stock of your gun after this, because you’re no longer a greenhorn. Come along, and let’s see what he looks like.”
The bear was undoubtedly dead. That last bullet had evidently finished him, although very likely he would never have left that spot after receiving the first and second shots.
“Whew! but ain’t he a buster, though?” ejaculated the delighted hunter, as he cautiously felt of one of the forepaws of the animal.
“We ought to get him out of this before morning,” said Allan; “because the bees will be apt to make it good and warm for us, if we poke in here by daylight. Let’s all get hold, and see if we can’t budge the old critter.”
They found it all they were able to do, to move the bear a few inches at a time; but once clear of the branches of the trees, the task proved easier. By throwing all their weight into each pull, as Jim sang out: “yo heave-o!” they finally managed to get the prize where they wanted him.
“How about leaving him here through the night, Jim?” asked Allan.