When he reached a narrow rivulet about one hundred paces distant, that gradually widened and deepened until it formed the valley in which the ferry-house was situated a half mile below, he paused and suffered the hounds to lead the way. They ran a short distance up the ravine and halted at the edge of a small thicket, and commenced barking very fiercely as they scented the air under the bushes.
“I’ll bet it’s another bear,” said Joe, putting a fresh priming in the pan of his musket, and proceeding after the hounds. “If it is a bear, ought I to fool with him by myself?” said he, pausing at the edge of the thicket. “I might get my other ear boxed,” he continued, “and it’s not such a pleasant thing to be knocked down by the heavy fist of a big black bear. If I don’t trouble him, he’ll be sure to let me alone. What if I call the dogs off, and go back? But what tale can I manufacture to tell Mr. Glenn? Pshaw! What should I fear, with such a musket as this in my hand? I can’t help it. I really believe I am a little touched with cowardice! I’m sorry for it, but I can’t help it. It was born with me, and it’s not my fault. Confound it! I will screw up courage enough to see what it is, anyhow.” Saying this, he strode forward desperately, and urging the hounds onward, followed closely in the rear in a stooping posture, under the hazel bushes.
In a very few moments Joe reached the head of the ravine, but to his astonishment and no little satisfaction, he beheld nothing but a shelving rock, from under which a spring of clear smoking water flowed, and a large bank of snow which had drifted around it, but through which the gurgling stream had forced its way. Yet the mystery was not solved. Ringwood and Jowler continued to growl and yelp still more furiously, running round the embankment of snow repeatedly, and ever and anon snuffing its icy surface.
“Whip me if I can figure out this,” said Joe; “what in the world do the dogs keep sticking their noses in that snow for? There can’t be a bear in it, surely. I’ve a notion to shoot into it. No I won’t. I’ll do this, though,” and drawing out his long knife he thrust it up to the handle in the place which seemed the most to attract the hounds.
“Freeze me if it hasn’t gone into something besides the snow!” exclaimed he, conscious that the steel had penetrated some firm substance below the frozen snow-crust. “What the deuce is it?” he continued, pulling out the knife and examining it. “Ha! blood, by jingo!” he cried, springing up; “but it can’t be a living bear, or it would have moved; and if it had moved, the stab would have killed it. I won’t be afraid!” said he, again plunging his knife into it, “It don’t move yet—it must be dead—why, it’s frozen. Pshaw! any thing would freeze here, in less than an hour. I’ll soon see what it is.” Saying this, he knelt down on the embankment, and commenced digging the snow away with all his might. The dogs crouched down beside him, growling and whining alternately, and otherwise exhibiting symptoms of restlessness and distress.
“Be still, poor Ringwood, I’m coming to him; I see something dark, but there’s no hair on it. Ugh! hallo! Oh goodness! St. Peter! Ugh! ugh! ugh!” cried he, springing up, his face as pale as the snow, his hair standing upright, his chin fallen, and his eyes almost straining out of their sockets. Without taking his gun, or putting on his hat, he ran through the bushes like a frightened antelope, leaping over ditches like a fox-chaser, tearing through opposing grape vines, and not pausing until his course was suddenly arrested by Glenn, who seized him by the skirt of the coat, and hurled him on his back beside the sled on which the deer was bound.
“What is the matter?” demanded Glenn.
Joe panted painfully, and was unable to answer.
“What ails you, I say?” repeated Glenn in a loud voice.
“Peter”—panted Joe.