Now Pedro was thoroughly well liked, with his Castilian courtesy and his ever ready song. The lack of physical courage had been his greatest drawback. Always had the fear been secret within him that at some crucial moment he might show the white feather. His experience with the Mexicans had removed that, but he was still mortally afraid of three things,—bears, rattlesnakes, and thunder storms,—that is, real wild bears, not the half tame kind that haunt the Parks.
Still, he had not noticed the furry form that stood neck-deep in the riffles, fishing with his great, barbed paw,—so perfectly did he blend into the background.
The shadow of the canyon wall had made twilight while yet the sun sent orange shafts through the trees on the canyon rim. Suddenly around the turn of the trail rose a huge brown form that gave a startled grunt, rising inquiringly on its shaggy hind legs and swinging its long head from side to side. Pedro’s heart began beating like a trip-hammer. (He wondered if the bear could hear it).
He wanted to run, to scream,—a course that would have been most ill-advised, for the bear might then have given chase. As it was, the boy remembered that the animal was probably more afraid than he,—or more likely merely curious at this biped invasion of his wilderness,—and would not harm him if no hostile move were made. The cinnamon bear of the Sierras, like his blood brother, the New England black bear, is a good-natured fellow.
With an iron grip on his nerves, he forced himself to stand stock-still, then back—ever so amenably—off the trail. The bear, finding no hostility intended, turned and lumbered up the mountain-side.
“‘Minds me of one time,’ said Long Lester, when he heard the story, ‘I was down to the crick once when I was a shaver, and along came a big brown bear. The bear, he stood up on his haunches, surprised like, and just gave one ’woof.’ About that time I decided to take to the tall timber.” (At this, Pedro looked singularly gratified.) “Well, that bear, he took to the same tree I did, and I kept right on a-climbin’ so high that I get clear to the top,—it were a slim kind of a tree,—and the top bends and draps me off in the water!”
Around the turn of the trail rose a huge brown form.