He raised his gun, and took a long, steady aim, measuring the distance with deliberation, and selecting the animal’s breast for his shot. Then, just as he was about to fire, the brute’s head turned and caught the cold, sharp moonlight full upon its face. There was a momentary flash of white, and Tresler’s gun was lowered as though it had been struck down.
CHAPTER VIII
JOE NELSON INDULGES IN A LITTLE MATCH-MAKING
The moonlight had revealed the grotesque features of Joe Nelson!
Tresler returned his gun to its holster precipitately, and his action had in it all the chagrin of a man who has been “had” by a practical joker. His discomfiture, however, quickly gave way before the humor of the situation, and he burst into a roar of laughter.
He laughed while he watched his bear drop again to his hands and knees, and continue to crawl toward him, till the tears rolled down his cheeks. On came the little fellow, enveloped in the full embracing folds of a large brown blanket, and his silent dogged progress warned Tresler that, as yet, his own presence was either unrealized or ignored in the earnestness of his unswerving purpose. And the nature of that purpose—for Tresler had fully realized it—was the most laughable thing of all. Joe was stalking his buckskin pony with the senseless cunning of a drunken man.
At last the absurdity of the position became too much, and he hailed the little choreman in the midst of his laughter.
“Ho! You, Joe!” he called. “What the blazes d’you think you’re doing?”