Wah, again! Also, hooray! Voices were shouting at him, to turn back; but, no, he would not turn back, even for a bear. He was a hunter. He ran faster, because he was afraid that some of the men would come with guns.
He reached the edge of the channel. The bear stiffened, lowered its head, and bristled, showing every fang. No “white bear” was it, evidently. It was a brown bear, but an old one, large and cross. Below, a few yards, the channel narrowed; the floe might lodge there, or the bear be enabled to spring from it to the other ice. Peter must act quick. He knelt and bent his bow—drew the arrow clear to the iron point, so that his arm holding the bow was straight and the hand of the other arm was against his shoulder. That was the way to shoot. The bear was right in front of him, balancing on the ice cake. Twang-thud! The arrow struck true—was buried to the feathers where the bear’s neck met shoulder.
Now another! Up reared the bear, roaring and clawing, and the floe swerved in toward the channel’s edge. Peter in his haste to pluck a second arrow, string it and launch it, slipped and fell sideways—and on the instant the floe had touched the channel edge, where the channel narrowed; roaring, the bear had sprung ashore, and roaring he was coming, the arrow feathers dripping red and his tongue dripping red, and crimsoned froth slathering his open jaws. The bristles on his back were full six inches high.
All this Peter saw in a twinkling. He had time only to launch his arrow. But he took good aim, there on his knees; whang-thud!—his second arrow landed near the first; and away he ran. From the bank at the fort men, both white and red, were running, too; running to help him. They waved their arms and weapons, shouted loudly.
Peter changed his course. They should not help him. He would show Pat, and the captains, and everybody, what he could do. He glanced over his shoulder. The bear was close. A bear could easily outrun a boy, or a man, and for a short distance, a horse. Aside leaped Peter, digging in his moccasined heels, for foothold in the soft spots; another arrow was on the bowstring; with scratching of claws and furious growl the bear slid past. But Peter had turned in a flash, and while turning had drawn his bow. Whang-thud! The arrow sank almost out of sight in the bear’s ribs, forward where the heart should be.
“Hooray!” cheered the shouting men.
The blow had knocked the bear down. He went sliding, in a struggling heap. Now he roared indeed, and twisting his head bit at the arrow. Up he rose, sighted Peter, and on he came. Peter lost a moccasin, his foot slipped. He stood his ground, held his breath, and took very careful, cool aim—bending his bow till it quivered in his grasp. A moment more, and the bear would rear, to strike him—and he loosed the taut string. The arrow struck the bear right in the nape of the burly neck; his head was low, bear fashion, and Peter had taken the chance. Down sprawled the bear, as if smitten by lightning, for the arrow point had cut his spine. He shivered, and was still. The four feathered ends jutted from his hide. He was a dead bear.
“Glory be!” panted Sergeant Pat, arriving. “An’ ye did it all by yourself! But, sure, I thought I see ye ’aten up entoirely.”
“Huh!” grunted Little Raven, second Mandan chief, prodding the lax, furry carcass with his spear. “Heap boy. Make big hunter.”
All together they dragged the bear, at the end of Pat’s belt, to the barge. Peter, of course, said nothing. But when Captain Clark clapped him roundly on the shoulder, and Captain Lewis said, “Well done, Peter,” he knew that he stood a good chance of being taken up-river. The Long Knife was not much given to idle words; but he appreciated deeds. The bear proved to be very old, very thin, with tusks worn to stubs. Hunger had driven him out of his winter hole early. The hair of his hide was loose. Nevertheless he was a large specimen.