Knowing that one stroke of the bear’s paw would be certain death to his poor dog, Dick leaped from his perch, and, with one bound reached the ground at the same moment with the struggling animals, and close beside them, and, before they had ceased rolling, he placed the muzzle of his rifle into the bear’s ear, and blew out its brains.
Crusoe, strange to say, escaped with only one scratch on the side. It was a deep one, but not dangerous, and gave him but little pain at the time, although it caused him many a smart for some weeks after.
Thus happily ended Dick’s first encounter with a grizzly bear; and although, in the course of his wild life he shot many specimens of “Caleb,” he used to say that “he an’ pup were never so near goin’ under as on the day he dropped that bar!”
Having refreshed himself with a long draught from a neighbouring rivulet, and washed Crusoe’s wound, Dick skinned the bear on the spot.
“We chawed him up that time, didn’t we, pup?” said Dick, with a smile of satisfaction, as he surveyed his prize.
Crusoe looked up and assented to this.
“Gave us a hard tussle, though; very nigh sent us both under, didn’t he, pup!”
Crusoe agreed entirely, and, as if the remark reminded him of honourable scars, he licked his wound.
“Ah, pup!” cried Dick, sympathetically, “does it hurt ye, eh, poor dog?”
Hurt him! such a question! No, he should think not; better ask if that leap from the precipice hurt yourself.