The doctor was looking carefully into the opened stomach.
“As far as I can see,” he answered, “this bear was living on vegetable food, for the past day or two. No trace of bones, feathers or meat. I should say he’d been feeding on berries.”
“Why does the government want ’em killed, then?” cried Spider.
“Why not? What good do they do?” Mr. Vreeland cut in. “Seems to me you boys are about the most tender-hearted people I ever stacked up against. What do you want to do, spoil all sport?”
“It’s just as much sport hunting with a camera,” Spider replied, “and a lot more dangerous, if you aren’t armed, and takes a heap more patience and skill.”
“Yes, and what do you get?”
“You get a picture—if you’re lucky—and you leave the animal alive for the next man to see.”
Mr. Vreeland grunted in disgust, scraped all the fat he could off the big, heavy skin, folded it up, put it over his saddle, and called his dogs. The boys got their horses, and the tired, hungry party rode down the mountain, following an open ridge to the meadows, and then trotted, lame and sore, to their camp. After a hasty meal, they rode back to the ranch. The doctor paid Mr. Vreeland for the trip, and insisted on giving him something for the bearskin beside, because it was his shot which brought down the bear. Then they all stood by while Pep struggled to get Methuselah started, and presently were out on the road again, headed for Bend.
Bennie sank back into the deep cushions of the motor with a huge sigh.
“Oh, boy!” he said, “p’r’aps these cushions don’t feel good! The last five miles, my saddle was made of cast iron. I’m dead to the world.”