Chet climbed more slowly after him out of the well-defined trail into the rocky berry pasture. Both boys were unarmed save for the knives in their belts, for even their revolvers were in their saddle holsters. The bushes hung heavy with the ripe fruit and Dig, who was inordinately fond of the berries, at once filled both hands and began to cram the fruit into his mouth.
“Look out! you’ll choke yourself,” his chum admonished him.
“Don’t you worry, old boy,” mumbled Dig, still eating greedily. “It would be a lovely way of dyin’—”
Just then, as though conjured for Dig’s particular punishment, there rose up on the other side of the clump of raspberry bushes a shaggy, black figure, almost within reach of Dig’s outstretched arm.
“Oh! oh! ah!” gasped Digby. “It’s yo—your buf—buffalo, Chet!” and he fell back upon his chum, the crushed raspberries running out of his mouth in two streams.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked his chum, who did not, on the instant, observe the object that had surprised Dig. “Stop joking about that buffalo.”
“Give me a gun! Give me a gun!” groaned the other boy, his mouth finally freed from the crushed fruit.
Then Chet saw the bear—a big black fellow, standing erect, and to all appearances just as scared as Digby Fordham was.
It had the funniest expression on its muzzle. Its jaws were all beslobbered with crushed raspberries, as were its paws. It had been pressing the berries into its mouth just as Dig had been doing, and Chet thought the sight of the two—the boy and the bear—was one of the funniest he had ever seen.
The bear’s little ears were cocked, and its eyes were amazingly sharp. But its surprise was plain and it staggered back just as Dig had done.