All the time while I fooled around trying to photograph the treed bear, R.C. sat there on his horse, looking upward.
"Well, gentlemen, better kill him," said Teague, cheerfully. "If he gets rested he'll come down."
It was then I suggested to R.C. that he do the shooting.
"Not much!" he exclaimed.
The bear looked really pretty perched up there. He was as round as a barrel and black as jet and his fur shone in the gleams of sunlight. His tongue hung out, and his plump sides heaved, showing what a quick, hard run he had made before being driven to the tree. What struck me most forcibly about him was the expression in his eyes as he looked down at those devils of hounds. He was scared. He realized his peril. It was utterly impossible for me to see Teague's point of view.
"Go ahead—and plug him," I replied to my brother. "Get it over."
"You do it," he said.
"No, I won't."
"Why not—I'd like to know?"
"Maybe we won't have so good a chance again—and I want you to get your bear," I replied.