Monnehan took the gun and his big club and went along up and around above the edge of the brush. My father took the pitchfork and my younger brother James kept on the ridge above the brush on the other side of the canyon, while my older brother John and myself were directed to come on a little later, after Mr. Monnehan had got himself in position to do his deadly work, and, if possible, drive the terrible beast within range of his fatal rifle.
Slowly and cautiously my brother and I came on, beating the brush and the tall rye grass. As we advanced up the canyon, Mr. Monnehan was dimly visible on the high ridge to the right, and father now and then was to be seen with little brother and his pitchfork to the left. Suddenly there was such a shout as almost shook the walls of the canyon about our ears. It was the voice of Monnehan calling from the high ridge close above the clump of dense wood; and it was a wild and a desperate and a continuous howl, too. At last we could make out these words:
“Oi’ve thrade the bear! Oi’ve thrade the bear! Oi’ve thrade the bear!”
Down the steep walls came father like an avalanche, trailing his pitchfork in one hand and half dragging little brother James with the other.
“Run, boys, run! right up the hill! He’s got him treed, he’s got him treed! Keep around the bush and go right up the hill, fast as you can. He’s got him treed, he’s got him treed! Hurrah for Monnehan, at last! He’s got him treed, he’s got him treed!”
Out of breath from running, my father sat down at the foot of the steep wall of the canyon below Monnehan and we boys clambered on up the grassy slope like goats.
Meantime, Monnehan kept shouting wildly and fearfully as before. Such lungs as Monnehan had! A mighty hunter was Monnehan. At last we got on the ridge up among the scattering and storm-bent and low-boughed oaks; breathless and nearly dead from exhaustion.
“Here, byes, here!”
We looked up the hill a little ahead of us from where the voice came, and there, straddled across the leaning bough of a broad oak tree hung Monnehan, the mighty hunter. His hat was on the ground underneath him, his club was still in his daring hand, but his gun was in the grass a hundred yards away.
“Here, boys, right up here. Come up here an’ get a look at ’im! Thot’s vaght Oi got up ’ere fur, to get a good look at ’im! Right up now, byes, an’ get a good look at ’im! Look out fur me hat there!”