The captain had dropped the blunderbuss in his fall, and now, with deep regret, and not a little anxiety, found himself unarmed and a prisoner. True, his long knife was still in its place, but he was too well aware of the strength and ferocity of the grizzly-bear—from hearsay, and now from ocular demonstration—to entertain the idea of acting on the offensive with such a weapon.
The sun sank behind the mountain-peaks, and the shades of night began to fall upon the landscape, and still did Captain Bunting and the bear sit—the one at the top, and the other at the foot of the oak-tree—looking at each other. As darkness came on, the form of the bear became indistinct and shadowy; and the captain’s eyes waxed heavy, from constant staring and fatigue, so that at length bruin seemed, to the alarmed fancy of the tree’d mariner, to be twice the size of an elephant. At last the darkness became so deep that its form mingled with the shadows on the ground, and for some time the uncertainty as to its actual presence kept the prisoner wakeful; but soon his eyes began to close, despite his utmost efforts to keep them open; and for two hours he endured an agonising struggle with sleep, compared to which his previous struggle with Black Jim was mere child’s-play. He tried every possible position among the branches, in the hope of finding one in which he might indulge in sleep without the risk of falling, but no such position was to be found; the limbs of the tree were too small and too far apart.
At last, however, he did find a spot to lie down on, and, with a sigh of relief, lay back to indulge in repose. Alas! the spot was a myth—he merely dreamed it; the next moment he dropt, like a huge over-ripe pear, to the ground. Fortunately a bush broke the violence of his fall, and, springing up with a cry of consternation, he rushed towards the tree, expecting each instant to feel the terrible hug of his ursine enemy. The very marrow in his back-bone seemed to shrink, for he fancied that he actually felt the dreaded claws sinking into his flesh. In his haste he missed the branch, and fell violently forward, scratching himself terribly among the bushes. Again he rose, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him as he uttered an involuntary howl of terror, and once more leaped up at the limb of the oak, which he could just barely see. He caught it; despair nerved him, and in another moment he was safe, and panting violently among the branches.
We need scarcely say that this little episode gave his feelings such a tremendous shock that his tendency to sleep was thoroughly banished; but another and a better result flowed from it,—the involuntary hubbub created by his yells and crashing falls reached listening and not far-distant ears.
During their evening meal that day, Ned Sinton and his comrades had speculated pretty freely, and somewhat jocularly, on the probable result of the captain’s hunting expedition—expressing opinions regarding the powers of the blunderbuss, which it was a shame, Larry O’Neil said, “to spake behind its back;” but as night drew on, they conversed more seriously, and when darkness had fairly set in they became anxious.
“It’s quite clear that something’s wrong,” cried Ned Sinton, entering the tent hastily, “we must up and search for him. The captain’s not the man to lose his way with a compass in his pocket and so many landmarks round him.”
All the party rose at once, and began to buckle on belts and arm, while eagerly suggesting plans of search.
“Who can make a torch?” inquired Ned.
“Here’s one ready made to hand,” cried Maxton, seizing a huge pine-knot and lighting it.
“Some one must stay behind to look after our things. The new-comers who camped beside us to-day are not used to mining life, and don’t sufficiently know the terrors of Lynch law. Do you stop, Maxton. Now then, the rest of you, come along.”