“It’s a bear,” exclaimed Harry, as soon as he could obtain a view of the animal.
“Yes, so I see,” answered Frank, coolly pouring a handful of buck-shot into each barrel of his gun. “We’ll soon bring him down from there. You be ready to finish him, in case I should miss.”
“Shoot close, then,” answered Harry; “for if you only wound him, he will prove a very unpleasant fellow to have about.”
Frank, in reply, raised his gun to his shoulder, and a loud report echoed through the woods, followed by a savage growl. The shot was not fatal, for, when the smoke cleared away, they discovered the bear clinging to the tree, apparently none the worse for an ugly-looking wound in his shoulder.
“Shoot me if the rascal isn’t coming down!” exclaimed Harry. “Try the other barrel, Frank, quickly.”
It was as Harry had said. The bear was beginning to descend the tree, and his whole appearance indicated that he meant fight. Frank was a good deal surprised at this, for he had great confidence in his double-barrel, and in his skill as a marksman, and had been sanguine of either killing or disabling him at the first shot; but the celerity of the animal’s movements proved that his wound did not trouble him in the least. It was evident that their situation would soon be any thing but a pleasant one, unless the other barrel should prove fatal. Frank could not pause long to debate upon the question, for the bear was every moment nearing the ground, now and then turning toward his enemies, and displaying a frightful array of teeth, as if warning them that it was his intention to take ample revenge on them. Again he raised his gun to his shoulder, his nerves as steady as if he were about to shoot at a squirrel, and carefully sighting the head of their shaggy enemy, pulled the trigger. The bear uttered another of his terrific growls, and after trying in vain to retain his hold upon the tree, fell to the ground. Brave was upon him in an instant, but the bear, easily eluding him, raised on his haunches, and seized the dog in his paws. One smothered howl came from Brave’s throat, and Frank, clubbing his gun, was rushing forward to the rescue of the Newfoundlander, whose death now seemed inevitable, when another charge of buck-shot, from Harry’s gun, rattled into the bear’s head, and again brought him to the ground. Brave was released from his dangerous situation, and the moment he regained his feet he attacked the bear with redoubled fury; but the animal easily beat him off, and rushed, with open mouth, upon Frank.
“Run! run!” shouted Harry; “the rascal isn’t hurt a bit.”
But with Frank, retreat was impossible; the bear was close upon him, and he would have been overtaken in an instant. Bravely standing his ground, he struck the animal a powerful blow, which staggered him for an instant; but, before he had time to repeat it, his gun went flying out of his hands, and he was stretched, stunned and bleeding, on the snow. The bear, no doubt, considered him disposed of, for he kept on after Harry, who, being unable to fire for fear of wounding either Frank or the dog, had been compelled to witness the struggle, without having the power of lending any assistance.
The bear had struck Frank a severe blow, which, for a few seconds, rendered him incapable of action; but as soon as he had recovered, he ran for his gun, and while he was ramming home the charge, he saw Harry’s coat-tails disappearing in a thicket of bushes, and the bear, seated on his haunches, engaged in fighting the dog, which, having experienced some pretty rough handling, had learned to keep out of reach of the dangerous claws.
As soon as Frank had loaded his gun, he hurried forward to put an end to the fight, when a sheet of flame shot out from the bushes, and the bear ceased his fighting, and lay motionless on the snow. A moment afterward Harry appeared, and, upon seeing Frank, exclaimed: