The party separated slightly, keeping always within hailing distance, but beating the bush as their horses picked their way over the uneven footing.
Presently there was a shot, followed by eight more as fast as old Skibo could pump his Spencer carbine, and then there was a wild whoop, a crashing of the underbrush, and Skibo’s horse went plunging down the bluff, with the darky clinging for dear life and an enormous grizzly in close pursuit.
The pards saw that it would be serious for the colored member if he should be swept from his terrified horse, which was making for the open land with all the speed it could muster with a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound negro on its back.
“Bear heap plenty bigger caballo,” said Cayuse, as he turned in pursuit. The other pards dashed down the mountain with as much speed as was consistent with the rough footing.
As they burst through a thicket of evergreen near the foot of the mountain they obtained a good view of Skibo clinging with his arms around the neck of his horse, which was still dashing madly out upon the plain, and the wounded bear shacking after at his best speed.
Then old Nomad arose to the occasion.
“Hy, thar! Skibo; how ’bout them Virginy possums now? Ef yer likes possum meat he’p yerself. Et’s free, Skibo; don’t be bashful. Git yer tarnation jawers onter et an’ chaw ter yer heart’s content. Cyan’t yer ketch ’im, Skibo? Never mind; yer doin’ well, an’ I opines ye’ll git ’im by an’ by, ef yer hoss hol’s out. Git er goin’, Skibo, an’ don’t let thet thar possum git erway f’m ye!”
Turning to Cayuse, the trapper continued:
“Why don’t yer git out thar an’ he’p yer brother? Mebbe ’tain’t possum, arter all; mebbe et’s coon, er a hedgehog. Git yer pied pony er-goin’ an’ ketch ther varmint.”
Skibo heard the shouts and laughter behind him and looked about. He saw that his horse could now outfoot the bear, so he began a large circle back toward the point where he had made a somewhat hurried dash upon the plain.