CHAPTER XL.

A SET-TO WITH A GRIZZLY.

Buffalo Bill had decided, while awaiting the day of his appointment with Little Moonbeam, to scout a bit in the mountains to the west of the fort. He believed there were Indian villages located in the fastnesses of the Big Horn range, and from these the numerous war parties sallied forth on their expeditions of plunder and rapine. If these villages could be discovered, and the Indians punished and driven back to their reservations, the lives and property of many settlers might be saved.

The scout was convinced that the raids were mostly to be laid at the door of a few daring and bloodthirsty chiefs like Rain-in-the-face. If these leaders could be captured and punished, the cause of peace would be promoted.

“Waal, ov all ther ringtail-peelin’, sidehill loungers I ever seen, ther b’ar thet tore round hyar wuz ther plumb biggest. Look et thet paw mark, Buffler, an’ see what yer think ov et.”

“Yah, yah! dat ain’ nuffin, Nick. Why! down in ole Virginy de possums make bigger tracks ’n dat dar grizzly done leab. Go way, dar, Nick! yo’ eyes been er magnifigetin’ circumspiciously. H’m! dat lib b’ar git ’is head kicked off if he come nigh ole Hide-rack.”

“Nomad heap ’fraid; bear all same raccoon,” put in Little Cayuse.

Buffalo Bill and Hickok grinned at the “kidding” of the old trapper, but offered no comment. They kept their eyes open for the appearance of the animal that had made the track, for he certainly must be a monster.

The pards were riding in the foothills of the Big Horn range, looking for signs of an Indian encampment and also a little sport, if it came their way. They had found no signs of Indians since leaving the plain, but evidences of bear were plentiful.

The party separated slightly, keeping always within hailing distance, but beating the bush as their horses picked their way over the uneven footing.

Presently there was a shot, followed by eight more as fast as old Skibo could pump his Spencer carbine, and then there was a wild whoop, a crashing of the underbrush, and Skibo’s horse went plunging down the bluff, with the darky clinging for dear life and an enormous grizzly in close pursuit.

The pards saw that it would be serious for the colored member if he should be swept from his terrified horse, which was making for the open land with all the speed it could muster with a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound negro on its back.

“Bear heap plenty bigger caballo,” said Cayuse, as he turned in pursuit. The other pards dashed down the mountain with as much speed as was consistent with the rough footing.

As they burst through a thicket of evergreen near the foot of the mountain they obtained a good view of Skibo clinging with his arms around the neck of his horse, which was still dashing madly out upon the plain, and the wounded bear shacking after at his best speed.

Then old Nomad arose to the occasion.

“Hy, thar! Skibo; how ’bout them Virginy possums now? Ef yer likes possum meat he’p yerself. Et’s free, Skibo; don’t be bashful. Git yer tarnation jawers onter et an’ chaw ter yer heart’s content. Cyan’t yer ketch ’im, Skibo? Never mind; yer doin’ well, an’ I opines ye’ll git ’im by an’ by, ef yer hoss hol’s out. Git er goin’, Skibo, an’ don’t let thet thar possum git erway f’m ye!”

Turning to Cayuse, the trapper continued:

“Why don’t yer git out thar an’ he’p yer brother? Mebbe ’tain’t possum, arter all; mebbe et’s coon, er a hedgehog. Git yer pied pony er-goin’ an’ ketch ther varmint.”

Skibo heard the shouts and laughter behind him and looked about. He saw that his horse could now outfoot the bear, so he began a large circle back toward the point where he had made a somewhat hurried dash upon the plain.

“Hyar, Skibo, doan’t bring ther varmint back this way till yer tie ’is feet. Quit it, yer dar-devil!” called Nomad.

“Yah, yah! Nick; take yo’ ole beah; Ah ain’ done los’ no beahs.”

In the laugh that followed Tootsie’s exuberance of spirits got the best of him, and he suddenly blew a loud and long series of toots on his bugle.

The bear stopped, looked up at the group, sniffed the air suspiciously, and started to investigate.

“Hyar comes yer coon, Cayuse! Now’s yer time ter ketch ’im. Recomember, papoose, no foul holts now, but fair ketch-es-ketch-ken, an’ ef yer gits ’im yer welcome.”

Nomad gave Hide-rack a slap and dashed out on the plain.

Buffalo Bill and Hickok sat on their horses a little apart from the others, enjoying the chase. They were ready to take a hand at any time their services might be needed, but were inclined to wait and see what the others would do.

Nomad, too, was inclined to take revenge by not raising a rifle against the enraged grizzly.

Little Cayuse’s pinto would not face the bear for a moment, but dashed madly away.

Tootsie was the only one left, and the bear made straight for him and his trembling horse. The boy blew a stiff blast at the advancing beast and then dashed away, with the bear in pursuit.

As he galloped Tootsie turned in the saddle and blew the “advance” at the bear, and a moment later the “charge.”

The bear was doing his best at both orders, but the fleet bay mare was too swift for him, and at last he gave it up and turned to sniff toward some of the others.

Tootsie was on the alert, and rode back, stopping a few rods from the bear to serenade him.

The bear looked at the bugler in disgust for a moment, and then started slowly back toward the mountain. Tootsie galloped alongside, far enough away for safety, and continued to serenade the monster.

The animal stopped several times, and, sitting on its haunches, looked quizzically at the boy with the bugle; then he would move on slowly. At last he sat up and, sticking his nose in air, emitted a mournful howl that made the pards shout with laughter.

“Why don’t yer shoot ’im, Tootsie?” asked Nomad.

“He ain’t my bear!” yelled Tootsie, who was having fun enough with the animal as it was.

“Ef yer ever wants ter kill er grizzly now’s yer chanst, boy--take ’im in ther front when ’e throws ’is head back ter holler.”

“Oh! I’d rather let ’im go. Perhaps he’ll ketch an Injun some day, an’ that’s excuse enough for livin’.”

The bear had started on again, but when Tootsie dashed up beside and blew a long blast at him the animal again sat up and howled mournfully. Whenever he stopped Tootsie again blew at him and the bear gave vent to that mournful sound.

Again and again the laughable performance was repeated, when suddenly the bear tipped over backward, kicked a few times, and died.

One of Skibo’s bullets had done its work, after all.

While watching the sport the keen eyes of Buffalo Bill had discovered a side show. His eye had suddenly caught a flash from the top of a bluff five hundred yards away, and he had kept watch of that point while apparently giving his whole attention to the fun in hand.

Falling back until he was in the rear of his pards, the scout quietly pulled his glass and studied the bluff. His suspicions were confirmed. Peering out from various hiding places were a score or more of Indians, who had been attracted by the hubbub.

They watched the performance with apparently increasing curiosity and amazement, even crawling out from their hiding places in order to acquire a better view.

When the bear sat up and howled so disconsolately they exchanged excited remarks and gestures, and repeated these every time the act occurred.

The climax came when the bear fell over dead. The Indians seemed dumb for a moment and then fled. Five minutes later the scout saw them darting around a bluff that sat out into the plain, and then disappear as fast as their ponies could carry them.

The Indians believed the boy had killed the enormous grizzly in some mysterious manner. They probably linked this with recent incidents in which the sound of a bugle had invariably spelled disaster for them.