Already Buckskin was getting busy with his repeater; and Andy, not to be left in the lurch, also scrambled over to where his gun lay.
Once more the battle was resumed, with all the odds on the side of those who, safe from the claws of the monster could at the same time send their little leaden messengers of death across the gulf, and into the body of the grizzly.
It hardly seemed fair, and yet what else can be done when dealing with such a terrible beast? Three men, yes, half a dozen, would not be too many to meet so ferocious a fighter at close quarters; and in order to win out, it is necessary to take advantage of every opening.
Rendered furious because of his wounds, and his inability to get at the objects of his hatred, the bear finally rushed straight at them, and of course toppled over the edge into the gap.
Meanwhile Mr. Witherspoon and Frank were getting fresh cartridges into the magazines of their guns as fast as their trembling hands could accomplish the feat. No one could tell how many shots might be found necessary before the tenacious life of the monster was snuffed out. “He’s dropped in!” shouted Andy, who had managed to discharge his gun twice, and seemed to feel that he had had something more or less to do with this last queer action on the part of the charging bear.
“Look out for him climbing up the side!” cried the rancher, doing his level best to get his weapon in serviceable condition.
“No danger, boss!” whooped Buckskin, who, down on hands and knees beside the edge of the gully, was trying to figure out what the condition of the bear might be, “he’s gone and cashed his checks in this time, and we done it all by ourselves, sure we did, Andy. Say, wasn’t he a whopper, now? And let’s get ready in case there happens to be a whole menagerie of the varmints around these diggings.”
After their guns had been placed in serviceable condition they crept to the edge of the little gulch and surveyed the huddled-up mass of hair, each declaring it to be his positive belief that the bear must be dead.
“Let’s some of us go down to him!” cried Frank.
“You bet we will,” echoed Andy; “I want that bearskin the worst kind, because, unless I’m greatly off my guess, there are just three holes in the same that my bullets made. How can we do it, Uncle Jethro. Please put us wise.”