Bobby grasped his friend’s arm, holding on fiercely.
“Keep still,” he uttered in a strangled whisper. “I have a plan.”
Bobby measured the distance between him and that rifle that lay so useless in the snow. If the bear withdrew only a little way, he would seize his chance, make a dash for the rifle, and shoot the ugly brute before it could reach him.
It was a mad chance—an almost impossible chance. Bobby knew that, but he also knew that it was the only chance they had.
Still holding fast to Fred’s arm, which the latter strove to wrench free, he centered his attention upon the great bear that still loomed uncertainly above the prostrate men.
If he should attack—then Bobby knew what he would do. Trusting to surprise he would make a dash for that rifle in the mad hope that he might reach it before the brute reached him.
Ah, what was the beast doing? Puzzled, was he? Undecided whether to begin his feast then or wait to make sure that his victims were dead.
For a moment it seemed as though he would fall upon the two men lying so helpless there, and with one sweep of his powerful, sharp-clawed paw rend the life from them.
Bobby’s muscles grew tense; he was ready to spring. Then, with a sharp intake of breath that was almost audible, he relaxed again.
The bear had changed its mind. There was plenty of time. He would sit down and think it over for a while. With a slow, leisurely movement the animal moved off a few paces, then turned and sat down, yellow eyes fixed watchfully on its victims. The slightest movement, the slightest change in the position of those two men—