“Where’s the bear?” gasped George, when he could master his emotions.
“Why didn’t you wait and see me shoot him?” asked Victor loftily.
“It can’t be you killed him.”
“He may live a few minutes longer, but I guess he’s gone off to die by himself. You know wild animals don’t like to have spectators when they give their last kick.”
“It can’t be,” said George as if to himself; “you couldn’t have hit him.”
“Then what made him leave so suddenly? Tell me that.”
“I don’t know; I never saw one of them before; but why didn’t he attack us? This bear is a bigger one than Mul-tal-la ever met, and it couldn’t be he was afraid of us.”
“Not of us—of course not, for only one of us held his ground, and I don’t think his name is George Shelton, but he saw I was here; he took one good squint at me, and things looked so squally he decided to leave.”
The complacency and self-pride of Victor were warranted, provided they rested upon a sure basis; that would soon be known. Few living woodmen have ever driven off a grizzly bear by a single shot, and it seems beyond the range of possibility for the feat to be performed by a boy.
Victor peered in all directions, and seeing nothing of the monster, turned and proceeded to “rub it in” with his brother.