We had hardly recommenced our work, when P. cried, “Look out! the bear!” At the first word I had seized my rifle. The bear was down the tree like a flash of lightning; to fire, drop the gun, out knife, and at him, was the work of an instant for each of us; but he slipped off like an eel from between us, and our knives had nearly found a different sheath; so exactly had our shots fallen together, that neither knew the other had fired.
The bear, so discourteously roused from his winter sleep, could not at first make out the reason. But the approach of the dogs, attracted by the shots, soon caused him to take to flight. P., rifle in hand, threw himself on his horse, and galloped after them, I following, with my drawn knife, as fast as my legs would carry me. The bear, severely wounded, did not run far, and finding the dogs gaining on him, he took to a tree. P. sprang off his horse and loaded, and I came up just in time to see the bear, struck by his unerring ball, spring up, turn over, cling for a moment with both paws, then fall heavily to the ground. The dogs threw themselves on him, while we plunged our knives into his chest with a shout of joy. The first two balls had hit him in the flank, while the third from P.’s hand had lodged in his heart.
As it was too late in the day to travel further, we returned to the place where my rifle and some of P.’s things were left, collected wood, made a capital fire, and prepared a splendid supper. As P. had been some days in the woods, we had finished his coffee in the morning; so, by way of something hot to wash down the meat, I pulled up some sassafras roots, cut them up into small pieces, and made a very good substitute for tea.
Refreshed by our hard-earned meal, we enveloped ourselves in our blankets, and chatted together before the fire: P. telling me about the winter sleep of the bears. Towards the end of the year, they select a hollow tree for the purpose, scratching and biting the inside as smooth and clean as possible. This done, they descend into it, about Christmas time, tail downwards, and remain immovable, if not disturbed, till the end of February or middle of March, when they come out for a drink of water, returning to their retreat till the weather is mild, and they can gain their ordinary livelihood. Sometimes, instead of a tree, they select a cane-brake, breaking and biting off the canes to form a bed.
The nearest house lay about ten miles north-east from our bivouac, and through the worst part of the swamp; but once there, I had hopes of being able to walk on firm ground, instead of floundering through water and mud.
After some hours’ agreeable repose, both of us having risen to make up the fire afresh, and just laid down again, we were suddenly alarmed by a most tremendous crash, which made us start up. The tree which we had been hacking at, and then thought no more about, was overthrown by the rising wind; but this wind saved us, for as it blew in the opposite direction to our fire, the tree fell from us—otherwise we might have paid dearly for our carelessness. As it happened to fall across the river, it made a very good bridge for me on the following morning. The dogs had dropped their tails, and started off at the very first crack.
We were up with the day. P. packed his bear on the horse, and made me promise to come and see him when the swamps should be dry, to join in a buffalo hunt. Taking a hearty leave of him I set off to the north-east. After three hours’ marching up to the knees, and sometimes to the waist, in water, I came on the broad road leading to Memphis, and turned to the eastward. In the afternoon I arrived at S.’s old farm, and walked half a mile further, to sleep at McO.’s, dwelling with pleasure all the while on the hopes of a warm bed, a sound roof, and the society of fellow-creatures.
McO. gave me a warm reception, doing every thing to make me comfortable: his wife came in later, having taken a ride to pay a visit to a couple of widows. It is a remarkable fact that such a number of widows are found in the swamps. Wherever you go, you are sure to see one at the least, and I think “Mr. Weller” would have felt very uncomfortable in this part of the world. Doubtless the climate is better suited to women than to men, as the latter almost always die first.
We were merrily chatting by the cheerful fire when suddenly the doorway was darkened. I turned to look at the new comer, and who should it be but the Methodist preacher. One night later, and I should have been out of his reach.
As the sun rose I started, quite refreshed, and before sunset arrived at Strong’s post-office, on the St. Francis. Communication by letter would be impossible in the thinly settled Western States, did not one of the farmers undertake the office of post-master. One is appointed for each county, but their duties are not severe. A postman, or mail rider as he is called, traverses the county on horseback, sleeping at certain fixed stations. The mail rider from Memphis, in Tennessee, with a pack-horse in addition, carries the mail for Little Rock and Batesville to Strong’s post-office, about forty miles, taking back the return bags; from Strong’s, one rider goes to Batesville, and another to Little Rock. I found a letter from Vogel, requesting me to return to Cincinnati, and telling me that three letters had arrived for me from Germany.