The feverish enthusiasm of the hunter, which he had never felt before, was now alive in Neal. His blood raced through his veins like liquid fire. He had been long enough in Maine to know that in wreaking vengeance on Bruin for many misdeeds he would be acting in the interests of justice. For the black bear is still such a master pest to the settlers who are trying to establish their farms amid the forests where it roams, that the State has outlawed the beast, and pays a bounty for its skin.
Joe thought little about this; for a gentleman whom he had guided early in the summer had lately written to him, offering a price of fifteen dollars for a good bearskin.
Here was the woodsman’s golden opportunity—an opportunity for which he had been thirsting since the receipt of that letter.
“Go It, Old Bruin! Go It While You Can!”
He already regarded his triumph over the bear as secure, and its hide as forfeited. He nearly caused Neal Farrar to burst a blood-vessel from the combined effects of struggling laughter and running, when he began to apostrophize the flying foe with grim humor, thus:—
“Go it, old Bruin! Go it while ye can! There ain’t a hair on yer back that b’longs to ye!”
But it soon became evident that the bear couldn’t go on much longer at this breakneck pace. Its pursuers heard its steps with increasing distinctness, and then its labored breathing. They were gaining on it fast.
The brute came into full view about forty yards ahead, as it ascended a slight elevation, crowned with blasted tree trunks.