“Not I!” cried Jack. “Run, Rose; he’ll go for me. Run! run!”
As he spoke, the savage bruin reared herself up in a vain effort to climb the smooth stone. Jack, on the boulder, laughed, as he balanced himself with difficulty, owing to the struggles of the cub. Seeing that to climb was impossible, the bear proceeded to make a flank movement, which would have enabled her to follow Jack up the back of the rock. The boy was in no way alarmed. But now he saw that Rose was in the path of the bear, and that Ned, white as death, was standing between Rose and the enraged mother, a canoe-pole in one hand, and the other motioning back at Rose, as he called to her to “Run! run!”
Just as Jack, appalled at these unlooked-for consequences, was about to part with his precious captive, a voice rang out again from the river: “Run! run! Quick!”
Ned cast a glance behind him, and, catching Rose’s hand, pulled at her so violently, as he threw the pole aside, that she lost her balance and fell, striking heavily on a corner of rock. Ned cast himself down beside her. Instantly a rifle rang out from the river behind them. As they lay, he heard the shrill “ping” of a rifle-ball above him, and the bear rolled dead on her side, clean shot through the head.
Jack leaped from the boulder, still holding on to the cub, and made toward Rose, as the men and Dick came out in haste from the wood onto the beach. Carington sprang into the water before his canoe touched the land, crying to Jack:
“Back there, you infernal young idiot!” With his rifle ready, he pushed the boy aside and advanced cautiously but swiftly, until he saw that the beast was dead. Next he turned to Rose, who lay motionless on the beach. As the group of faces, still wild with scare or excitement, gathered around him, he knelt, lifted the girl, and, seeing a thin thread of blood leaping in little jets from her temple, he set her head against his knee and put a finger on the wound, saying:
“Get me water. It is not so bad. Good Lord! It might have been worse!”
“Is she dead?” said Ned.
“Dead? No, my boy—not she.”
He wet his handkerchief and washed the blood off her face, still keeping a finger above the cut on the artery, as he gave directions to Tom to make a pad from Ned’s handkerchief. With this and his own tied tightly around her head, he was able easily to check the bleeding. Meanwhile the rest stood still, recognizing the competence of the improvised surgeon.