At the best he hoped for no more than the lee side of a windfall, or else a fissure among the rocks that could be roofed over with a thatching of branches. He did not dream that the fates might deal more kindly with him. But as he struggled up the steep slope, through a thick fir coppice, he chanced to notice a peculiar, smooth-sided hole in the snow crust above him. It was a small opening, scarcely large enough to admit a man's hand, but with his first glance he halted, stared incredulously for an instant, and then, with a grim tightening of his lips, he lowered Devreaux's body to the ground, and climbed upward to investigate.
Pressing his face to the aperture, he was conscious of a rank, furry scent that a bear hunter could never fail to identify. He laughed softly under his breath. For once fortune had dealt munificently with him. Chance had led him to the winter den of a hibernating bear, and in his desperate extremity he was ready to contest possession with its owner.
The popular belief that bears lie torpid in winter is a fallacy, as Dexter knew only too well. A grizzly will hole-up with the first frosts, living on his own fat during the famine time of cold, dozing and sleeping through the short days and long freezing nights. If left undisturbed in his chosen nook, he will nap in sluggish contentment until spring comes around; but there is nothing trancelike about his sleep. His nose and ears are always cocked towards the entrance of his snug retreat, and at the sound or scent of intrusion he will arouse instantly, with every savage instinct alert and primed for battle. A man who intrudes on a hibernating silver-tip takes his life in his hands. The corporal was aware of the penalty he might have to pay for rashness, but the thought of holding back now did not occur to him. He must get Devreaux under cover, and for the sake of a stricken comrade he would not scruple to fight for a den with a grizzly bear.
From a fallen tree near by he broke off a pitch knot to use as a torch. Then, without giving himself time for reflection, he climbed the embankment again and started deliberately to enlarge the breathing hole that had been thawed through the snow.
As quietly as possible, he broke out chunks of the frozen crust, and in a couple of minutes had uncovered a low, tunneled opening that ran back in darkness, somewhere among the rocks. Before him lay a cavern of some sort that time and weather had hollowed under the pitch of the mountainside. How far it extended he could not guess, but the entrance would admit his body if he stooped low, and he knew that where a grizzly had gone, a man could follow.
He knelt for a space, listening, and fancied that he felt the rhythm of slow, heavy breathing in fetid gloom beyond. With hand steadied by enforced calmness, he struck a match and ignited his torch. The resinous wood took fire almost at once, burning with a sputtering, smoky flame. He whipped the brand about his head to assure himself that it was not likely to flicker out, and then drew his heavy service pistol and started forward into the tunnel.
Crouching, he advanced in the cramped passageway, but he had taken no more than three steps, when he was aware of a sudden heaving movement in front of him. The next instant the silence was broken by a loud snorting whoof, and as he peered into the warm, rancid darkness, he caught sight of two greenish sparks—lambent points of flame, that he knew were a pair of glaring eyes.
His first shot might be his last, and he leveled his pistol point-blank at one of the glittering marks, aiming with great care and pulling the trigger with slow, even pressure.
With the battering explosion in his ears, he was conscious of a shadowy bulk heaving up before him, and then the walls of the cave seemed to tremble before a terrible, hot-breathed roar that reverberated in his brain like a thunder clap. He felt a surging movement in the darkness, and jerked his head back just in time to save his face from the mangling stroke of a steel-hooked paw that batted the air with a ton-weight of fury behind it.
Through the reek of smoke he still saw the flaming eyes, and he poked forward the pistol at full stretch and once more fired. Again and again the red streak of flame spouted from the muzzle of his weapon, and the rapid concussions crashed back and forth in his head, buffeting his senses as a swimmer is buffeted by the surf. The noise and confusion, the suffocating powder fumes filling his nostrils and lungs began after a moment to overcloud his faculties, leaving him only the subconscious will and determination to keep on shooting. His finger was working automatically on the trigger, sending bullet after bullet into the looming bulk before him.