Ruggles was out of the saddle in an instant, Winchester in hand.
“I catched sight of something,” he said in an undertone; “look after my horse, while I find out what it is.”
“Have a care,” cautioned the parson; “it may be an Indian.”
“That’s what I think it is,” replied Ruggles, who instantly started down the trail rifle in hand, his posture a crouching one and his senses strung to the highest point.
He passed from view almost on the instant, and his companions listened with intense anxiety for what was to follow. Suddenly the sharp crack of their friend’s rifle rang out in the solemn stillness, the report echoing again and again through the gorge, with an effect that was startling even to such experienced men. It was the only sound that came to them, and, while they were wondering what it meant, Ruggles reappeared among them with the noiselessness of a shadow.
“It was a bear,” he explained; “I think he scented the animals and was follering on the lookout for a chance at ’em.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Don’t think I did; he must have heard me comin’ and was scared; he went down the trail faster than I could; when I seen that I couldn’t catch him, I let fly without taking much aim. Maybe I hit him; leastways, he traveled so much faster that I give it up and come back.”
The party lingered for half an hour more, but as the horses showed no further fear, they concluded that bruin had taken to heart the lesson he received and would bother them no further.