I was watching Van Zandt, who was a few hundred feet away, when there was a crashing noise in the brush, and midway between him and us a good-sized black bear stepped out on the trail. My horse made a buck jump that nearly unseated me and backed half his length into the bush. Bang! Bang! went Miss Viola's gun. The bear stumbled, gave a roar of pain and rage, and started for us. The mare plunged wildly, wheeled about sharply and flew back by the way we came. The brute I rode was paralyzed with terror and I could not budge him, nor did I dare to shoot for fear of hitting Van Zandt, and my position of course kept his rifle silent. But he took in the situation at a glance, fired in the air, gave a yell that a panther might have envied, and came toward us at a gallop.
The bear turned to look at this new enemy, and rose promptly on his hind legs to receive him. I saw the gray swerve slightly, heard a savage “Jump, ——— you!” from Van Zandt, saw his spurs go home, and then the great horse rise to the leap and skim over the bear in a splendid arch. Blarney, who was just behind his master, was not so fortunate. He lit fairly on the bear, and was sadly scratched and bitten before he got away. Van Zandt shouted, “I must catch her before she gets to the fallen tree!” and went by me like a whirlwind. It was not much over a mile, she had a hundred yards and more the start of him, and the mare was going like the wind. I fired a shot as soon as the gray passed me, and the report seemed to rouse my horse, who, oblivious to spur and voice, had cowered shivering in the brush, for he shook himself, snorted, took a last look at the bear, which was preparing to join the procession, turned tail and fled, developing speed of which I would not have believed him capable.
It was a horrible ride, not on account of the bear, which might have been a mouse for all the thought I gave it, but because there, ahead of me, in that narrow road, a beautiful girl, just blossoming into splendid womanhood, was rushing to an awful, ghastly death, and a few cruel yards behind her the man that loved her and would so gladly have given his life for hers. Oh, how my heart ached for him, and how I wished the old man that was third in that terrible race might die instead of that sweet child-woman! Could he overtake her? He was spurring fiercely and the gray was doing his best; but though the gap between them was closing, it was closing slowly—and we had entered the wood. Yes, he was surely gaining now, sixty feet more and he would have her. But there was the tree, and he couldn't reach her in time. I covered my eyes with my hands and turned sick and faint. Then came back to me in a man's voice grown shrill with agony, one word, and following it crash! crash! in rapid succession, and again the sound of the hurrying hoof beats.
I opened my eyes. Was I blinded by my tears? There were no dreadful bundles under the tree. Then that word, with its fierce, imperious note of command, which had conveyed no meaning to me in that first awful moment, came through the porch of the outer ear, where it had lingered, into the brain, and I understood—“Jump!” He had taken the one chance left to them at the last moment, shrieked his order at her, and she had obeyed, lifting her mare to a leap that looked impossible. He had followed her, and they had cleared it safely, for I could see their heads over the fallen trunk. I checked my horse, dismounted, led him through the opening and galloped on again.
In a few moments I had the pleasure of seeing the gray range up alongside of the mare and Van Zandt seize her bridle. I joined them and found they were sound in life and limb. Harry was standing by the mare's head, quieting her, and somehow he had gotten possession of a little gauntleted hand and was looking at the girl with a world of love in his fine eyes. She was quite pale, but her face was steadfast and strong, and in it as she met Van Zandt's look frankly was the dawning of something that she was unaware of yet, something that, if she lived would crown her lover's life with happiness “sweet beyond compare”—and my old heart was glad for them both.
Neither Blarney nor the bear was in sight, and as I had hung on to my rifle half unconsciously I proposed going back to look for the dog, but they insisted on accompanying me, and Miss Solander showed her own gun in its carbine holster with the flap buttoned. I tell you it took nerve for a girl on a runaway horse to do that bit of work. Well, we went cautiously back, Van Zandt holding a strap fastened to the mare's bridle, and I on ahead. Nothing in sight until we got out of the wood and had made a slight turn. Then we saw Blarney, very ragged and bloody, but with an air of proud ownership, sniffing around the dead body of the bear. We had some trouble in bringing up the horses, but managed it finally.
Everyone seemed to feel after that that Van Zandt would win and wear the violet. Even Mrs. Northrup was preparing to bow gracefully to the inevitable, when Ethel came on the scene in the rôle of “enfante terrible” and spoke her little piece.