"Oh, yes, I hit him," admitted Mr. Ranquist, showing just a little pride in the achievement. "I winged him, but I'll have to do better than that, if I want to persuade him to go away. These bullets are only flea-bites to him."
The little leaden pellet did not seem to cause the bear much suffering, but the pain angered him, and, with savage growls, he made fierce efforts to get at the man he apparently knew had fired the shot. In rapid succession Mr. Ranquist pulled the trigger four times more, but none of these balls touched a vital spot, though two of them struck the beast in the head. He was now wild with rage.
Mr. Ranquist began to reload his revolver.
"I've only one more round—seven shots," he called.
"Hold on then!" shouted Adrian. "You can't kill him with those. If you'll hold his attention long enough, by firing at him, I'll shin down, and go for help. We'll need somebody with a gun for this bear."
"Do you think you can do it?" asked Mr. Ranquist, anxiously. "I wouldn't want you to get hurt."
"Sure I can do it," replied Adrian, with all a boy's ability in his power to do something he has never tried before.
"I rather dislike the idea, for I'm afraid he'll get away from me, even if I keep firing at him, and take after you," objected Mr. Ranquist.
"I'll chance it," was Adrian's answer. "Go ahead with loading up, and, when you're ready I'll scramble down. His back is toward me, when he's under your tree."
"All right," called Mr. Ranquist, slipping in the last cartridge.