“I’m going to kill that brute with my knife!” cried Broswick.
Drawing a keen blade from the sheath at his belt, he jumped straight on the bear’s back. The beast, with a fierce growl of rage, turned and tried to bite the legs of the strange enemy that was plunging something terrible and sharp into his shoulders.
Ned threw some wood on the fire. It blazed up brightly and, by the light of it, the boys and Nestor saw the bear rear on his haunches, with Broswick still clinging to his back.
The hunter had one hand clasped in the shaggy fur of the brute, and the other was sending the knife, again and again, into the thick skin, trying to reach a vital spot.
Bob had rolled to one side, out of harm’s way, and suffered no more than a rough mauling by the brute. But Broswick was not to escape so easily.
With a sudden movement the bear turned, shook the hunter loose, and then, before the brave fellow could defend himself, the savage animal had clasped him in the terrible and powerful claws.
“Help! He’s squeezing me to death!” Broswick cried.
His arms were pinned to his sides and he could not get a chance to use his knife, which he still held.
Jerry saw his chance. Approaching close to the bear from behind, the boy placed the muzzle of the gun against the brute’s head.
There was a loud report, a last fierce growl, and the animal, with a convulsive hug of the hunter, dropped over, dead. Jerry had shot just in time.