“Now we gettum bear steak,” Toma said.
In single file they followed the gliding figure of the guide, as he set off on the trail of the grizzly.
“See that track!” Dick exclaimed presently, pointing with his rifle at a spot of soft leaf-mold.
“It’s a bear track, all right,” conceded Sandy, “—and look! There’s blood on that bush.”
“We sure hit him a lot of times—I mean you and Toma,” Dick corrected. He felt disappointed that he had not actually been in on the killing of the bear, since he had had no rifle. But the thrill of trailing a wounded grizzly made him forget.
Toma seemed to follow the trail as if by instinct. Where Sandy and Dick could see no sign whatever, Toma went unerringly forward, always with that gliding, noiseless, pigeon-toed pace, that seemed tireless, though it was kept up with an ease and speed that made Dick and Sandy run.
For a half mile they wound among the trees, beginning to come upon spots where the bear had dropped down to rest. At these points the blood was drying in large clots. Finally, approaching a fallen tree, they came upon the grizzly, stone dead!
Dick and Sandy were about to cheer, yet the actual sight of the bear made them a little sad. The great monarch of the forest never again would proudly tread the forest aisles. Yet the boys felt a certain satisfaction in having won in a battle with such a powerful foe.
Toma immediately began skinning one haunch of the great bear. “Him old and tough,” grunted Toma, “but we cook um long time. That make um tender.”
Dick laughed. “The old boy will make stringy eating.”