“Wow!” he exclaimed, “it sure is a Mountain Charley squattin’ there. Reckon we might be a-goin’ to have a little trouble along of him sooner or later, when the cattle get to comin’ up this way.”
Bob instantly understood, for he recognized the name as one given to a grizzly bear in California, and among some of the cowboys of the Southwest.
“Where is he?” he asked. “Frank, we’ve got our guns; and perhaps we’ll just have to touch up the old fellow; because it would never do to let him get among the stock.”
“No,” said the ranchman, immediately; “for while he might content himself with just a single cow, the sight and smell of him would surely stampede the rest of the herd; and let that once happen up here, and we’d never get them together again.”
“Then we’ll have to try and bowl him over, Bob,” said Frank, as he looked to his repeating rifle, which was one of the very best on the market.
Bob felt the sportsman blood leap in his veins. This was different from shooting an innocent little antelope, which he never did without feeling more or less sorry; and only repeated the exploit because fresh food was needed. But a grizzly bear was a foe worthy of the efforts of the most experienced hunter.
Bob had had one experience in this line, and not a great distance away from the spot where he now stood; for it had been on the occasion of their first visit to Thunder Mountain that it
happened, and in the entrance to the big canyon leading upward.
He could see the bear, now that Scotty had pointed him out. The animal was apparently aware of the presence of human beings; but he showed not the slightest trace of fear, or a desire to retreat.
“He seems to be right on the trail,” declared Frank, as he looked.