Thus they followed for hours, sometimes losing the track, and then, after a long search, finding it again, which consumed a great deal of time. The trail led them in the direction of Charlie’s place.
“It’s one of your bears, Charlie; they are breachy. I wish you would keep them at home out of my corn.”
“You must put them in pound, Joe.”
Pursuing till they came to the brook, they lost the track altogether. Thinking he might have gone into the brook, they followed along the banks on each side to the pond, hoping to regain his track when he left the water, but without success. They were now hungry and discouraged,—it was the middle of the afternoon,—and were about to abandon the search and return, but sat down under a short, butted, scrubby hemlock to rest and consult.
“If we only had Tige,” said John, “he would take us right to him.”
For the last hour they had seen no blood, and Joe reckoned that the blood had clotted in the wounds, or he had stuffed them with moss.
“We shall have to give him up; he’s got into his den,” said Joe.
“Why couldn’t we go home and get Tige on the track, and start, early in the morning?”
While they were conversing, a drop of blood fell on the back of Charlie’s hand. Looking up, he saw the bear in the tree right over his head.
Worn out with fatigue and loss of blood, and unable to reach his den, with the last efforts of remaining strength he had crawled up the tree, with the design of ascending to the thick top, and escaping the notice of his pursuers; but having tangled the cod-line, to which the stake which supported the muzzle of the gun was attached, round one of his hind legs, he had dragged it after him, and catching it in the lower limbs, he, being exhausted, was brought to an anchor. The exertion of climbing the tree had made the wound bleed afresh.