“Mind me,” was the reply. “Keep yer eye on the brute all the time. ’Tain’t no use to fire; his hide is like a sheet of iron. Bullets flatten ag’in’ it like paper-balls. Darn my hide ef they don’t. He’s got his eye on my hoss; he kain’t hev it, mind ye.”
All this was said almost in a whisper. The bear had not moved, but was standing in the same place, shifting his head to and fro to get away from the eye of the intrepid man. Ben knew his advantage, but between keeping his young companion from firing, and watching the bear, he had his hands full. At last the bear rose slowly on his hind legs, and opening his jaws, uttered a terrific growl, at the same time showing a set of long, white teeth, at the sight of which poor Jan, who was crouching behind a rock, uttered a yell of terror.
“Keep still, you durned fool,” said Ben, without turning his head. “You’ll bring him on us ef you show the white feather thet thar way.”
Still he kept the eye of the bear. The brute lowered himself upon all fours and suddenly began to retreat. He had not gone ten paces, however, when he turned again and rose upon his hind feet, repeating the menacing growl which he had uttered before.
“Och! Mein Cott!” muttered Jan. “Our vader vich art—goot saints, vat teet’! Dere ish no more as fivifty teet’ in hees jaw. I dinks I ish mooch ’fraid.”
The bear again dropped on all fours and turned his head up the rocks. But Miffin, who had restrained himself well until now, jerked his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The ball had hardly left the barrel when the savage brute, with a broken fore shoulder, came down the slope on three legs, with growls which made the blood of the Dutchman run cold in his veins, and wish himself safely back in fatherland. But he took up the gun he had brought with him from the Rhine, a gun on the pattern of the roer of southern Africa, and with his heart in his throat awaited the onset. Jules Damand fired one ineffectual shot at the savage brute, and then drew his pistols. Ben Miffin saw that he had brought this on the party, and that he was the one to be sacrificed, if any. He drew his knife and was about to close with the bear, when the Frenchman dragged him away.
“Climb a tree,” he said. “Take your gun with you.”
Each darted at a low pine, and scrambled up as soon as possible, just in time to escape the fury of the brute. He reared himself on his hind legs at the foot of the tree occupied by the trapper, and glared at him seated comfortably in the lower branches. The mouth of the bear was open, and the white foam dropping from the red tongue. He lowered his head and licked the blood from his wounded shoulder. The taste of blood made him more savage, and he gnawed at the tree with his white teeth.
“Where are you, Jan?” cried Ben, not seeing the Dutchman anywhere. “Have you got to a tree?”
“Nein!” replied Jan from behind his rock, “dere ish no dree here. I ish kilt! I ish eaten oop mit a pear! Ach mein Cott! vy you don’t shoot ’im? Vire mit de gun at ’im. Dere ish no hope vor boor Jan Schneider, dat ish drue; so help me der saints!”