After they had eaten, they stacked the dishes in the sink and went out to the garage. Chris Hanson and Professor Stern were armed with .30-.30 Winchester rifles. Stern said their neighbor down the road had promised to provide weapons for the boys. They piled into the jeep, which had been warming up for a half hour, and drove about two miles into the foothills to the ranch of Vladimir Thorsen, the son of a Russian-Swedish sourdough who had struck it rich in the gold rush. Thorsen was a short, rugged-looking man of fifty, with jet-black hair and a Vandyke beard. His English was precise, with just a trace of an accent. He welcomed the boys heartily and insisted that the men join him in a last cup of strong black coffee mixed with brandy.
“I don’t think we will have to look far for our bear,” he announced grimly. “Two nights ago, a big brute came right into the barnyard and carried off one of my lambs.”
Chris Hanson whistled shrilly between his teeth. “He had his nerve, didn’t he?”
“A cunning old monster,” Thorsen said. “From the size of his footprints, I would estimate he weighs about 1,400 pounds. He has toes missing on his two forefeet.”
“He’s evidently been in some battles,” Stern said. “And won them.”
When the men had finished their coffee, Thorsen escorted them into his den. The walls were covered with pistols and rifles and the mounted heads of every kind of big game imaginable. The rancher took down two big, unwieldy, ancient-looking rifles and handed them to the boys. “Here are your weapons.”
Sandy and Jerry couldn’t help but show their disappointment. “They’re very nice guns, sir.” Sandy made an effort to sound appreciative. “But—what are they?”
“They look as if they were left over from the Revolutionary War,” Professor Stern said tartly. “What are you trying to pull on these kids, Thorsen?”
Thorsen stroked his pointed beard and cast a reproving eye on the instructor. “You are an American teacher and you don’t recognize this magnificent rifle! It is a Sharpe’s buffalo gun, the same kind that your Buffalo Bill killed 1,800 buffalo with. I’m ashamed of you, Kenneth.”
“It’s only single-shot, too,” Jerry observed critically.