“Con. stood with uplifted axe ... as Mac. ... fired into the face of the foremost bear.”—[p. 196.]
As I was about to fire again he disappeared, and a moment later reappeared at the side of the boat, threw one paw over the gunwale, and with open blood-thirsty jaws, made a lunge for my leg. Fortunately for me his reach was a little too short, and the result was he got the worst of the scuffle. Putting my revolver up to the side of his head, I gave him the contents of the five chambers before he could retire. These shots, however, did not penetrate the skull, and beyond causing a withdrawal, only had the effect of further enraging him.
Hostilities having been commenced at close quarters, we continued the fight until I had fired my last cartridge and bruin’s scalp was riddled with lead. But the wounded fury still swam powerfully, and with ammunition now exhausted it appeared as if we would not be able to complete the task we had undertaken. For a short time we watched his movements, and observing that he seemed inclined to go ashore, we decided upon a new plan of action. Steaming away around the point we beached the boat, and armed with axe, ice-gaff and knife, we climbed the farther side of the cliff, and there concealed ourselves in such a position that we were able to watch the enemy’s movements.
We had not long to wait, for, thinking himself unobserved, he swam ashore at the foot of the bluff and hid among the broken rocks. Feeling that our opportunity had now arrived, we descended stealthily from ledge to ledge and from rock to rock, taking care that we should not be scented or observed. Step by step we drew nearer, until close to the foot of the cliff, and almost at our feet, we came upon the wounded bear. He was much out of humor, and feeling sore enough from his many wounds, but before he had time to demonstrate his displeasure, Mac. had thrust the gaff through his skull, Con. had cleft his head with the axe, and my knife had spilled his heart’s blood upon the rocks.
In the animal world the polar bear is admittedly the monarch of the north. He is the bear of bears, being described by all Arctic travellers as possessing enormous strength and great voracity. Of the score of polars whose more or less intimate acquaintance I have had occasion to make, I have seen at least two whose tracks in the snow measured fifteen by eighteen inches, whose length measured over nine feet, and whose slain carcases tipped the steelyard at from fifteen to sixteen hundred pounds.
Consequently I have always had great respect for the sentiments expressed in the following lines by an author whose name I regret being unable to recall:—
“Of the black bear you need not be afraid,
But killing white ones is a dangerous trade.