“Shoot him, Dave, shoot him!”
With frantic haste Dave fixed the priming of his flint-lock musket. But long before the weapon was ready for use the buffalo was out of sight and hearing.
On the ground in the hollow lay the she-bear, giving a last convulsive shudder. At the mouth of her den were the two cubs, whining plaintively, as if they understood that something had gone wrong. Henry sat on one of the rocks, with his foot still caught fast and a look of pain on his face.
“What’s the matter? Did the buffalo hit you?” called out his cousin, after he had looked to make certain that the bear could do no further harm.
“No, but I—I hurt my ankle,” panted Henry. He gave his leg a pull. “Oh! But that hurts!”
“The bear is out of it,” said Dave. He came closer. “Hullo, your foot is caught. Let me help you. I reckon we have seen the last of that buffalo.”
“I don’t know about that, Dave. We both hit him, and the bear gave him something to remember her by.”
“Poor beast! She certainly did what she could for her cubs. Just look at them now!”
It was an affecting sight. The mother bear had passed away and both of the cubs had crawled forth from the den and were licking her face and pushing her form with their little noses. Then both began to whine once more. Neither seemed to think of running away.
Dave set down his gun and helped Henry to release his caught foot. Then they took off the legging and the shoe. The ankle had begun to swell and there was a deep scratch on one side.