He fell back as he had done before, but floundered up with a second leap. Maurice, who was nearest, gave a shrill yell and tried to dash aside, but he stumbled and went head-long in the deep snow.
Fred instantly leaped into the camp. The shelter was full of smoke and light flame, but he knew where the rifles lay, and snatched one. Straightening up, he was just in time to see the bear vanishing with long leaps into the darkness, ploughing up clouds of snow.
He fired one shot wildly, then another, but there was no sign of the animal's being stopped, and the next instant it was out of sight.
"Quick! Stamp out this fire!" exclaimed Peter at his shoulder.
They tore down the flaming branches and beat them out in the snow. The light flame was easily put out, but it left the camp a chaos of blackened twigs and ashes.
"Well, we turned him out," said Maurice, who had hastened in to help. "Did you hit him, do you think?"
"I wish I'd killed him!" said Fred. "He's ruined our camp. But I don't believe I touched him. He was going too fast."
Peter had raked the camp-fire together and thrown on fresh wood. A bright blaze sprang up, and by its light they took off their stockings and looked for the dead white of frozen toes. But it was only Maurice who had suffered the least frost-bite, and this yielded to a little snow-rubbing. The heavy woolen stockings, and perhaps the depth of the snow itself had protected the rest of them.
Putting on his moccasins Fred then went to look for results from his shots, but came back reporting not a drop of blood on the snow. The bullets had missed cleanly, and the animal was probably miles away by that time.
"What do you suppose he'll do for the rest of the winter?" Maurice asked.