The bear spun around once, toppled and fell with a tremendous crash on the spot where Bert had been a moment before.
Once more Bert raised his rifle, looking narrowly for any sign of life. But the last bullet had done the work. A convulsive shudder ran through the bear's enormous length. Then he stiffened out and a glaze crept over the wicked eyes. He had fought his last fight.
And as Bert looked down at him, his relief and exultation were tempered by a feeling of respect for the brute's courage. Never for a moment had he shown the white feather. He had fought gallantly and gone down fighting.
Tom and Dick, who had now rejoined him, shared his feeling.
"Nothing 'yellow' about that old rascal but his hide," commented Dick.
"A fighter from Fightersville," added Tom.
When their jubilation had somewhat subsided, they measured their quarry.
"Ten feet four inches, from the tip of the nose to the root of the tail," announced Tom. "Gee, but he's a monster."
"The daddy of them all," said Dick.
"He must weigh over half a ton," judged Bert.