Frank had a method in his activity in rolling away from the danger zone. He remembered that he had placed his gun at the foot of the tree that had the gnarly trunk, and in a case of this sort the quicker a fellow laid hands on some means of defense the better.
Now Bruin was once more upon his feet, having succeeded in putting out the few sparks that had threatened to set him on fire, so that if he ran through the forest he must have resembled an animated torch.
Bang!
That was surely the voice of the repeating gun. Bluff had had it in his hands at the time the bear, angered by the constant inrush of bitter smoke, had dashed from his den, among the blazing fagots.
BANG! THAT WAS SURELY THE VOICE OF THE REPEATING GUN.
It had taken Bluff just about five seconds to get himself together and raise his gun to a level with the struggling black form among the scattered brands of the disturbed fire.
"Whoop! Give him some more, you!" shouted Jerry, peering over the top of the log behind which he had now taken refuge.