“Just what he did,” Allan went on to say. “I reckon he had a stout cord fixed on his gun, and could slip one arm through this, so that the Marlin went up when he did, all right.”
“Ain’t he the cute one, though?” Step Hen murmured, in admiration.
“Well, you can see how the bear clawed the tree,” continued Allan, “but he wasn’t able to get up. Grizzlies are poor climbers anyway, and this fellow must have been handicapped by that injured hind leg.”
“And then Bumpus, he opened on him, didn’t he?” Giraffe cried.
“Well, I guess that’s what he did,” laughed Thad. “I can count twelve empty shells here under the tree. Two Bumpus used at long range, but all the rest he must have fired point-blank, with the bear not more than five or ten feet away from the muzzle of his gun.”
“How d’ye tell that?” asked Giraffe.
“Why, here, and here you can see the hair on the bear looks singed around a wound. That proves the gun was only a few feet away. And notice too, boys, nearly every shot took effect either in the breast or back of the bear. The one that finished him was this in the ear. It penetrated his brain.”
Giraffe gave one of his whistles, and then remarked:
“Glory! but there must have been a hot time around here, all right. I can just imagine I see Bumpus perched up in that crotch, and blazing away as fast as he could load. What a circus it was, and such great luck. Why, that feller could grab the first prize in the Havana lottery if he ever wanted to go down to Cuba and take a chance. He can sure do anything!”
“He got his bear, bless his dear old heart,” laughed Step Hen.