Speaking seriously, he is a dangerous assailant. White hunters never attack him unless when mounted and well armed; and the Indians consider the killing a grizzly bear a feat equal to the scalping of a human foe. These never attempt to hunt him, unless when a large party is together; and the hunt is, among some tribes, preceded by a ceremonious feast and a bear-dance.
It is often the lot of the solitary trapper to meet with this four-footed enemy, and the encounter is rated as equal to that with two hostile Indians.
Of course, both Redwood and old Ike had met with more than one “bar scrape,” and the latter was induced to relate one of his best.
“Strengers,” began he, “when you scare up a grizzly, take my advice, and gie ’im a wide berth—that is, unless yur unkimmun well mounted. Ov coorse, ef yur critter kin be depended upon, an’ thur’s no brush to ’tangle him, yur safe enuf; as no grizzly, as ever I seed, kin catch up wi’ a hoss, whur the ground’s open an’ clur. F’r all that, whur the timmer’s clost an’ brushy, an’ the ground o’ that sort whur a hoss mout stummel, it are allers the safest plan to let ole Eph’m slide. I’ve seed a grizzly pull down as good a hoss as ever tracked a parairy, whur the critter hed got bothered in a thicket. The fellur that straddled him only saved himself by hookin’ on to the limb o’ a tree. ’Twant two minnits afore this child kim up—hearin’ the rumpus. I hed good sight o’ the bar, an’ sent a bullet—sixty to the pound—into the varmint’s brain-pan, when he immediately cawalloped over. But ’twur too late to save the hoss. He wur rubbed out. The bar had half skinned him, an’ wur tarrin’ at his guts! Wagh!”
Here the trapper unsheathed his clasp-knife, and having cut a “chunk” from a plug of real “Jeemes’s River,” stuck it into his cheek, and proceeded with his narration.
“I reck’n, I’ve seed a putty consid’able o’ the grizzly bar in my time. Ef them thur chaps who writes about all sorts o’ varmint hed seed as much o’ the grizzly as I hev, they mout a gin a hul book consarnin’ the critter. Ef I hed a plug o’ bacca for every grizzly I’ve rubbed out, it ’ud keep my jaws waggin’ for a good twel’month, I reck’n. Ye-es, strengers, I’ve done some bar-killin’—I hev that, an’ no mistake! Hain’t I, Mark?
“Wal, I wur a-gwine to tell you ov a sarcumstance that happened to this child about two yeern ago. It wur upon the Platte, atween Chimbly Rock an’ Laramies’.
“I wur engaged as hunter an’ guide to a carryvan o’ emigrant folks that wur on thur way to Oregon.
“Ov coorse I allers kept ahead o’ the carryvan, an’ picked the place for thur camp.
“Wal, one arternoon I hed halted whur I seed some timmer, which ur a scace article about Chimbly Rock. This, thort I, ’ll do for campin’-ground; so I got down, pulled the saddle off o’ my ole mar, an’ staked the critter upon the best patch o’ grass that wur near, intendin’ she shed hev her gut-full afore the camp cattle kim up to bother her.