Straining every nerve I aimed as before, only a little in advance, held tight and pulled at the same instant. The bear doubled up in a ball and began to roll down the slide. He scattered the leaves. Then into the thicket he crashed, knocking the oaks, and cracking the brush.
"Some shot!" yelled Copple. "He's your bear!"
But my bear continued to crash through the brush. I shot again and yet again, missing both times. Apparently he was coming, faster now—and then he showed dark almost at the foot of our slope. Trees were thick there. I could not see there, and I could not look for bear and reload at the same moment. My fingers were not very nimble.
"Don't shoot," shouted Copple. "He's your bear. I never make any mistakes when I see game hit."
"But I see him coming!"
"Where?... By Golly! that's another bear. He's black. Yours is red.... Look sharp. Next time he shows smoke him!"
I saw a flash of black across an open space—I heard a scattering of gravel. But I had no chance to shoot. Then both of us heard a bear running in thick leaves.
"He's gone down the canyon," said Copple. "Now look for your bear."
"Listen Ben. The hounds are coming fast. There's Rock.—There's Sue."
"I see them. Old Dan—what do you think of that old dog?... There!—your red bear's still comin' ... He's bad hurt."