“Without pausing to notice more, I turned to my companion’s assistance. He had just fired one charge into the animal, and then drawn his knife, afraid to fire a second time lest his shot should strike the Indian.
“As I reached his side the Indian devil sprang; but the ball had struck a vital spot, and snarling madly it fell together in a heap, while again and yet again went the professor’s knife between its shoulders right up to the hilt.
“As the dead brute stiffened out its sinewy length, we dragged it one side and made haste to examine its victim. The poor wretch proved to be Tobin; and we found him stark dead, his throat most hideously mangled, and his neck broken.
“Sickened at the sight we turned away. The other Indian we found still lying where he had fallen, with his right arm badly shattered by my heavy charge of buck-shot. After brightening up the fire we proceeded to dress his wounds. At this work we had small skill, and dawn broke before we got it accomplished.
“Then, digging with our paddles a grave in a sandy spot on the shore, we buried the Indian devil’s victim, and set out with our sullen prisoner for the settlements. Paddling almost night and day, we reached Détour du Lac, and there we delivered up our captive to the combined cares of the doctor and the village constable.
“As we afterwards learned, the doctor’s care proved effectual; but that of the constable was so much less so, that the villain escaped before he could be brought to justice.”
“Truly you keep your good wine for the last, Stranion,” said Ranolf.
“Can Sam do as well, I wonder?” inquired Queerman.
“No, he can’t!” said Sam positively. “But he can give you something humorsome, at least, to relieve this tragic strain. It’s about a bear, of course. I’m very glad my bears hold out so well. This story is called,—