"Pretty good for a tenderfoot, eh?"
Ned's bronzed face took on a darker hue as he blushed violently.
"I don't exactly call myself that now, sir," he replied.
"Right. You say your friend chased a bear out!"
The lad nodded.
Luke shook his head.
"Bad. Can he shoot?"
"Oh, yes. But he had only a revolver—a heavy thirty-eight calibre that belongs to Professor Zepplin."
"Nice toy to hunt bears with," laughed the foreman. "Bear's probably cleaned him up. I'll get a man I know and I'll go back with you myself. We can run down the trail easily enough, but it will need two trailers, one to follow the pony and the other the bear after their trails separate," the foreman informed them wisely.
"Do—do—you think he has been killed?" stammered Ned.