“And did you shoot him after that?” Lucy asked.
“Sure I shot him.”
“I think you were real horrid,” she said.
“Maybe,” Mills answered. “But I’m still wearin’ his skin in winter.”
“How many shots did it take?” asked one of the congressmen. “I’ve always heard you have to pump a grizzly full of lead, and then use a knife to defend yourself, after your last shell is emptied.”
“The feller that told you that was a bum shot,” said the Ranger. “’Course there are a lot of bum shots come out here huntin’. One bullet, in the brain, the upper part of the heart, or the right place in the spine, will drop a silver tip like a sack o’ grain. You’ve got to know where to hit, and you’ve got to hit there, naturally. Trouble is, green hunters get scared or rattled, and don’t aim right, and half the time when they think they’re plugging the bear they’re really peppering the rocks behind him. I wouldn’t want to hunt ’em myself with a single shot rifle, but I could if I had to. A city chap in one of our parties once, over in the Blackfeet forest, smashed all four of a bear’s legs with bullets, and then the bear, tryin’ to get away, fell into a stream and drowned to death. Our cook asked the feller why he didn’t chuck him in to start with, and save shells.”
“When you going to show us a bear?” Bob demanded.
“Mercy, I do hope it isn’t very soon!” cried Bob’s mother. “I’m sure I don’t want to meet one. I don’t suppose there are any in the Park any more.”
“Oh, yes, more ’n ever,” said the Ranger, managing a secret wink to Joe. “Why, there was two women from Boston once, sitting in broad day on the steep cut bank of a stream, and they heard crashings in the bush, and looked back and seen a big grizzly coming right toward ’em, and they yelled like Comanches and fell right down the bank into the water, and waded across up to their necks and beat it back to camp.”
“Better stick close to brave little Bobbie, ma,” laughed her son. “I won’t let the naughty big bear bite you. But when are you going to show me one, Mr. Mills?”