"Why it's like—murder," he protested.
"Oh, not so bad as that," I returned, weakly. "We need the meat. We've not had any game meat, you know, except ducks and grouse."
"You won't do it?" he added, grimly.
"No, I refuse."
Meanwhile the young ranchers gazed at us with wide eyes and the expression on Teague's honest, ruddy face would have been funny under other circumstances.
"That bear will come down an' mebbe kill one of my dogs," he protested.
"Well, he can come for all I care," I replied, positively, and I turned away.
I heard R.C. curse low under his breath. Then followed the spang of his .35 Remington. I wheeled in time to see the bear straining upward in terrible convulsion, his head pointed high, with blood spurting from his nose. Slowly he swayed and fell with a heavy crash.
