They waited for the appearance of the bear, but the animal did not show himself. Something like a prolonged grunt came up to them, and after that all was quiet.
“Do you think we really killed him after all?” came from Harry, as he attempted to look into the opening from the top.
“It’s possible. But let us wait a while, and see if he makes another move.”
Five—ten—fifteen minutes passed, and at last they came to the conclusion that the game must be either dead or mortally wounded.
“I’m going to poke into the hole and see,” said Joe. “I’ll do it with the muzzle of the gun, so if he has turned around he’ll get the ball directly down his throat.”
With caution he approached the opening, and poked down into it with his firearm. At first he could feel nothing. Then he grew more daring, and crawled down several feet.
“Here he is,” he cried, a moment later. “He seems to be stuck fast between the rocks, and I reckon he is stone-dead.”
Growing bolder, both went as far into the opening as possible. They found the bear wedged in tightly, and he uttered no sound when shoved sharply with the gun barrels, or when stabbed with Harry’s hunting knife.
“He’s dead, sure enough,” said Harry. “But we might as well crawl down the rocks again, and take a look at him from the front.”
Instead of crawling down, each took a leap into the snowbank. They felt strangely elated over bringing the bear low, and now approached him boldly, yet with their guns once more ready for use.