The Peril Finders

by George Manville Fenn

For he knew what had happened: the bear had in changing its position upon the long piece of rock disturbed the revolver lying there, and knocked it off on to the sleeper’s chest, from which it had glided down between his ribs and the rock to lie close to his hand, where he could not seize it for his defence without rousing the animal to an attack before he could cock the pistol and fire.

The position was horrible, for Chris felt that the monster must be a grizzly, one of the fiercest and most powerful beasts that roam the forest, and though so much help was close at hand, it seemed to the boy that it might as well be a mile away, for he dared not—no, not dared, but simply could not—utter a sound.

How long this agony lasted he could not tell, but all the time he felt a strange combination of sensations, for it was as if his body was turned to ice, his head was on fire, and hot and cold together he was melting away.

He could see dimly the bulky dark figure of his visitant, but he judged that it could see him plainly, for it kept on moving about uneasily, and twice over changed its position from one rock to the other, bridging them over, and then sitting up as if listening, before coming down softly on all fours again, to stretch out its neck and begin sniffing at him from end to end.

At last, when a horrible feeling of faintness was creeping up from head to brain, a thrill ran through the boy, for a great paw was stretched out, touched him on the breast, and he felt the claws catch in the right side of his jacket as he was lifted up a little with a strange scraping sound against the rock, and something rolled over on to his chest as he was lowered down again, and then rolled back against his right-hand.

The shuffling sound began again, and as if to claw him out of the narrow trench-like place in which he lay, the bear reached out once more, thrusting its great paw down between him and the rock, and with the claws right under him began to lift him out.

Chris felt himself rising slowly, and knew that the next thing would be that he would be seized by the animal’s teeth and slowly carried off to his lair.

But a change had come over the lad in those moments, ever since the first movement had sent something on to his chest to roll back against his hand. For that something was the revolver, about whose butt Chris’s fingers closed, and as the bear’s shuffling had raised him up there was a click, click of the lock, a movement of the boy’s wrist which directed the muzzle of the little piece upward, and then in an agony of desperation his right finger pressed the trigger and there was a sharp echoing report, followed by a furious yell and crash which was followed by a call for help, and the voice of Wilton.

“Who fired that shot?” he shouted.