But the difficulty of using his knife with any surety, or putting any force behind the blow under water, detained him from trying this. Besides, the bear, if killed or badly injured, would sink and might pinion the redskin to the bottom of the brook.
Therefore, as soon as he could see at all through the rolling smoke, and the worst of the flames had passed, leaving a thicket or dead tree only blazing in its wake here and there, the redskin made up his mind that he would better trust to the dry ground. His moccasins were well-nigh torn from his feet by his furious race through the forest, and his meager clothing in general had been seriously torn. There was little to shield him from the fire if he came forth, but the water of the brook was ice-cold, and hardy as the Red Knife was its chill had now set his teeth to playing like castanets.
The bear whined with the cold, too, but the next moment he growled as Red Knife made a movement toward him. If the beast once got a hold with his front paws on the redskin he would disembowel him with the great claws of his hind feet. Red Knife shrank farther away from the bear’s vicinity.
At this bruin plucked up courage. He growled again, came down off his haunches, and began to swim across the pool toward the Indian. The latter saw that it was his move—and the only place for him to move to was out of the water. So he backed into the shallower part of the stream and toward a part of the bank that was comparatively clear of fire.
The heat and smoke were still almost blistering. To leave the water was a cross indeed. But the bear continued to advance, and Red Knife did not consider that he wished to come immediately to close quarters with the brute.
As he backed out of the stream the heat of a near-by blazing thicket warmed him more than comfortably. The chill was driven out of his body, and his teeth stopped chattering. Fearful as he was of the fire—all wild beasts hate it—the bear found the increasing warmth grateful, too. He scrambled out upon the bank, too, and actually squatted down in the heat of the bonfire to dry himself.
Red Knife looked about him as well as he could for the drifting smoke, and picked out the apparently safest path from the spot. Had he been contented to decamp without stirring up the bear, he would have been all right. But an Indian loves to tell of his prowess around the camp-fire, and so far there had been very little in this adventure to suggest a tale of self-glorification.
Therefore the buck determined to have those bear paws for his father and the claws for the necklace, after all!
He hunted out a big stone, pried it out of the smoking ground with his knife, and, picking it up, poised it carefully for a cast. With a sudden grunt of anger, the bear rose up. He seemed to smell trouble in the air. His movement rather spoiled Red Knife’s aim, or else the buck was nervous. The stone, thrown with terrific force, just glanced from bruin’s hard skull!
With a roar the bear sprang at the foolish red man. He came all glaring eyes, froth-dripping fangs, and unsheathed claws—a sight to drive the barb of terror into the bravest heart!