Hero did not try to escape. Perhaps his nostrils were not so sensitive to the smell of the bear. But his master hurried to soothe him.
Poke shook off the swinging rifle at almost his first leap, and its striking his heels frightened the horse all the more. Then he began to strew Dig’s camping outfit along the trail, one piece at a time.
Following the rifle, the pistol was tossed out of its holster—Dig had forgotten to fasten the flap of the pocket. His lasso was only hung on the saddle horn and that dropped off, banging the galloping horse about the heels.
Dig, running after him, yelled “Whoa!” until he almost lost his voice, but to no purpose.
The blanket roll became unfastened and it whipped Poke over the flanks. One article after another was spewed from the roll, and after striking the frightened horse, bounded off into the trail or beside it.
A can of condensed milk hit a boulder and burst. A skillet was kicked into the air as Poke ran, and when it was found there was a hole through it as big as one’s fist.
“By all the hoptoads that were chased out of Ireland! That creature never will stop.”
“Get on my horse, Dig,” begged his chum.
“All right. But unhitch all that truck. I’ll take your lariat.”
“Going to lasso Poke?” demanded Chet, still much amused.