CHAPTER TWELVE

Treed by a Wounded Bear

Professor Stern roused the boys at eight o’clock on New Year’s morning. “Put on two suits of long woolen underwear and two pairs of socks,” he instructed them. “We’ll probably be out until dark.”

They dressed quickly and went downstairs to the big kitchen, where Chris Hanson was cooking breakfast. “How’ll you have your eggs, fellows?” he asked.

“Sunny side up,” Sandy answered. “Can we help?”

“Sure. You can start the toast.”

Sandy took a handful of sliced bread out of the bread box and began searching through the cupboards. “Where’s the toaster?” he asked finally.

Chris smiled and pointed to the stove. “Right here. Just butter the bread lightly and spread the slices out between the lids.”

For the first time, Sandy became aware that the cooking stove was the old-fashioned, cast iron, wood-burning type; the kind you saw only in Western movies in the United States. A long tongue of flame and a shower of sparks shot up into the air as Chris lifted one of the front lids and set the teakettle over the opening.

“When we first bought the place,” Chris said, “we planned to install one of those newfangled electric stoves in a year or two. But we got attached to this old girl. We’ve never regretted it either. I don’t know how many times the electric power has conked out for days at a time. Anyway, this cooks better than any gas or electric stove I’ve ever seen.”

After they had eaten, they stacked the dishes in the sink and went out to the garage. Chris Hanson and Professor Stern were armed with .30-.30 Winchester rifles. Stern said their neighbor down the road had promised to provide weapons for the boys. They piled into the jeep, which had been warming up for a half hour, and drove about two miles into the foothills to the ranch of Vladimir Thorsen, the son of a Russian-Swedish sourdough who had struck it rich in the gold rush. Thorsen was a short, rugged-looking man of fifty, with jet-black hair and a Vandyke beard. His English was precise, with just a trace of an accent. He welcomed the boys heartily and insisted that the men join him in a last cup of strong black coffee mixed with brandy.

“I don’t think we will have to look far for our bear,” he announced grimly. “Two nights ago, a big brute came right into the barnyard and carried off one of my lambs.”

Chris Hanson whistled shrilly between his teeth. “He had his nerve, didn’t he?”

“A cunning old monster,” Thorsen said. “From the size of his footprints, I would estimate he weighs about 1,400 pounds. He has toes missing on his two forefeet.”

“He’s evidently been in some battles,” Stern said. “And won them.”

When the men had finished their coffee, Thorsen escorted them into his den. The walls were covered with pistols and rifles and the mounted heads of every kind of big game imaginable. The rancher took down two big, unwieldy, ancient-looking rifles and handed them to the boys. “Here are your weapons.”

Sandy and Jerry couldn’t help but show their disappointment. “They’re very nice guns, sir.” Sandy made an effort to sound appreciative. “But—what are they?”

“They look as if they were left over from the Revolutionary War,” Professor Stern said tartly. “What are you trying to pull on these kids, Thorsen?”

Thorsen stroked his pointed beard and cast a reproving eye on the instructor. “You are an American teacher and you don’t recognize this magnificent rifle! It is a Sharpe’s buffalo gun, the same kind that your Buffalo Bill killed 1,800 buffalo with. I’m ashamed of you, Kenneth.”

“It’s only single-shot, too,” Jerry observed critically.

“With a gun like that you only need one shot,” Thorsen said. “You could drop an elephant with one shot.” He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a handful of enormous cartridges. “See?”

Chris Hanson picked one up and hefted it in his palm. “It’s a small artillery shell.” He grinned at the boys. “You want to trade? I’d feel plenty safe facing Mr. Bear with this cannon.”

“No,” Jerry answered quickly. “If it was good enough for Buffalo Bill, it’s good enough for me.” He picked up one of the long rifles and balanced it on his shoulder. “Hup-two-three-four....” He staggered around the room. “Hey, doesn’t a weapons carrier come with this thing?”

The rancher smiled, showing two rows of strong, white teeth. “You are a very funny fellow,” he said. “Maybe the bear will die laughing.... Come, the horses are already saddled and waiting.”

Jerry’s face clouded over. “Horses?” he said.

“Yes, we may have to go ten or fifteen miles into the hills.” He led them out of the den, through the kitchen and out the back door.

The boys fell behind as they approached the stables. “Have you ever ridden a horse before?” Jerry whispered to Sandy.

“Sure, I’m a fair rider.” Realization suddenly dawned in his eyes. “You’ve ridden before—haven’t you?”

“Only on the merry-go-round,” Jerry said miserably. “But don’t say anything. I don’t want to spoil the party.”

“Well ...” Sandy was uncertain. “I suppose we’ll be walking the horses mostly, so you can’t get into too much trouble.”

“Sure, we can hang back and you can instruct me in the fine points of horsemanship.”

An Indian groom brought the horses out of the stable. They were much sturdier animals than the ones Sandy had rented at any riding academy—more like cowboy ponies. They wore Western saddles, too.

“They’re all mares,” Thorsen explained. “Not too high-spirited and very manageable. Good mounts for tracking.”

Jerry’s eyes were round as he and his horse confronted each other. “This is the closest I’ve ever been to one,” he confided to Sandy. “I never realized they were so big.”

“You won’t have any trouble,” Sandy assured him. “She’s a gentle girl.” He stroked the smooth flanks and the muscles rippled beneath the glossy black coat. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

Jerry mounted without difficulty and settled himself comfortably in the big saddle with his feet planted in the stirrups. “Nothing to it,” he said.

Sandy grinned. “Nothing to a jet plane either, while it’s sitting in the hangar. Here.” He handed Jerry’s rifle up to him.

“What do I do with it?” Jerry demanded.

Sandy indicated a large leather sheath that was fastened to the right side of the saddle. “Stick it in the saddle boot.”

They rode out single file, with Thorsen’s horse breaking trail through knee-deep snow across a broad meadow behind the ranch house. A long split-rail fence ran along the back of the property. Thorsen pointed out a break in the fence, where the heavy logs lay scattered around like jackstraws and a six-inch post was snapped off at the base.

“That’s where he came through.”

From the break in the fence a wide path, which looked as if it had been plowed by a small bulldozer, led up a slope into a grove of spruce trees.

“It won’t be much of a problem tracking him, will it?” Chris Hanson said.

Thorsen shrugged. “It depends. We’re protected from the wind in the valley. Farther up in the mountains, the trail may be covered over by now. It’s been two days.”

Professor Stern swung down off his horse and knelt to examine the bear’s footprints, which had been almost obliterated by blowing snow. He brushed away some of the fine, white powder with his mitten. Abruptly, he looked up at the rancher. “Did any one of your hands take a shot at this fellow?”

Thorsen frowned. “Certainly not. Why?”

Stern pointed to faint, rust-colored streaks in the snow between the imprints of the bear’s foot pads. “Looks like blood to me. Probably a wound, high on the leg, and the blood trickled down between the toes.”

“Maybe he hurt himself when he broke through the fence,” Sandy suggested.

“That’s possible,” Stern conceded. He walked back and inspected the broken logs carefully. Finally, he shook his head. “No sign of blood here. I’m afraid our bear has been the victim of a careless hunter.”

Thorsen scowled fiercely and muttered something in a guttural foreign tongue. Then he exploded in English. “I would like to get my hands on that filthy pig!”

“I don’t get it,” Jerry said to Sandy. “What’s he so excited about? That’s the whole idea, isn’t it, to shoot the bear?”

“Sure, but once you wound an animal, it’s your obligation to finish him off. That’s the first commandment of hunting. First of all, it’s cruel to let an animal suffer. And when you’re dealing with big game, it’s downright dangerous. A pain-crazed bear, for instance, can be a menace to anything that comes anywhere near him.”

“That’s right,” Chris Hanson agreed. “We’re going to have to stay on our toes from here on.”

Professor Stern swung back into the saddle and they followed the bear’s trail into the woods. There were great, towering ancient pines, clustered together so that their heavy foliage meshed to form a solid roof above the forest floor. Only a fine dusting of snow had filtered through their heavy branches onto the thick carpet of pine needles that cushioned the earth. The horses’ hoofbeats were barely audible as they picked their way between the trees, which were bare for at least twenty feet up.

“It’s like being in a cathedral,” Sandy said reverently. The voices of the men ahead sounded embarrassingly loud in the silence beneath the pines.

A pine cone skittered out from under the hoof of Jerry’s horse and rattled across the dry needles. Jerry started and almost slipped out of the saddle.

“Watch it, boy,” Sandy cautioned him. “How is it going, anyway?”

“I’ll be okay, once old Dobbin and I get ourselves co-ordinated. Every time he goes up, I’m coming down and vice versa.”

Sandy grinned. “You’re too tense. Relax and try to imagine you’re part of the horse.”

“I know what part I feel like,” Jerry said wryly.

On the other side of the grove they picked up the bear’s trail again. It headed up a steep, rocky hillside, dotted with patches of scrubby trees and huge boulders. The horses had slippery footing and they went very slowly now.

Thorsen took his rifle out of the saddle boot, levered a shell into the chamber and rested it across the saddle in front of him. The other men followed suit.

Professor Stern turned and smiled reassuringly at the boys. “Don’t be alarmed. It just doesn’t pay to take any chances. I’ve heard of these wily old bears doubling back on their trail and setting up an ambush for unwary hunters.”

Jerry swallowed hard and cast a nervous glance back over his shoulder. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring up the rear.” His horse skidded unexpectedly on a mound of loose stones and Jerry clutched it frantically around the neck with both arms, burying his face in the thick mane. When the horse had steadied itself again, he straightened up and settled himself gingerly in the saddle.

He touched one hand to the seat of his pants and moaned. “How can one part of you feel so hot when the rest of you is so cold?”

Sandy was sympathetic. “Yeah, I feel for you, pal. That old saddle gets pretty hard after a while. And this is a rough way to get initiated to horseback riding to begin with.”

They rode on for another half hour until they came to a shallow ravine with a dense growth of white birch trees and underbrush. Thorsen studied the steep rocky slopes of the ravine carefully. Except for a light dusting of snow they were wind-blown clean, as was the rocky shelf on the other side.

“I can’t see any sign of a trail. For all we know, he may be hiding down there in those trees,” he said.

Professor Stern nodded in agreement. “It’s possible. I’d hate to run into a Kodiak in those close quarters. What do we do now?”

“We play it completely safe,” Thorsen replied. “Some of us can ride around the ravine—it’s no more than a quarter of a mile to the north—and see if we can pick up his trail on the other side. If we do, we can assume he’s not waiting to pounce on us in the ravine. Those who remain here can safely ride across directly.”

“Why don’t we all ride around together?” Chris wanted to know. “What’s the point of leaving anyone here?”

Thorsen stroked his silky beard. “Because if Mr. Bear _is_ hiding in the ravine, we have him trapped. One group can flush him out into the guns of the other group.”

“That seems sound,” Stern acknowledged. “Which of us will stay here?”

“Jerry and I will,” Sandy volunteered. “Both of us are pretty tired, and it’ll give us a chance to rest.”

“All right,” Stern said. “Better make sure your guns are ready for action in case that bear surprises you.”

As the three men rode off along the edge of the ravine, the boys dismounted and tethered their horses to a bare, crooked sapling. Sandy sat down on a boulder with his buffalo gun across his knees, but Jerry remained standing.

“I may never sit down again,” he told Sandy.

Soon the three men passed out of sight where the ravine curved back behind a ridge, and the boys turned their attention to the birch trees below them.

“Think our bear is down there?” Sandy asked.

“Naw, I bet he’s miles away from here by now.”

The words were scarcely out of Jerry’s mouth when the sound of a rock clattering down the far side of the ravine jerked their eyes upward. Standing beside a big boulder on the rocky shelf facing them was the biggest bear they had ever seen in their lives. His long, shaggy fur was tipped with silver, and on his underside it almost brushed the ground. The monster seemed oblivious of their presence.

“I don’t think he sees us,” Sandy whispered to Jerry. “They have very poor eyesight. And we’re upwind of him so he can’t smell us.”

But the horses caught the scent of the bear and began to whinny and stamp their hoofs in terror. The big Kodiak’s ears went up and he lifted his head, probing the air with his sensitive snout. Slowly he reared up on his hind legs.

Jerry couldn’t restrain a gasp of astonishment and wonder. “Wow! Will you look at the size of him! He must be ten feet tall if he’s an inch.”

When the bear stood erect, Sandy could see a red, matted spot on his left shoulder. “Someone shot him all right,” he said. He pressed his lips firmly together and lifted the big rifle to his shoulder. “Well, here goes.” Then he added, “You take a bead on him too, Jerry, in case I miss.”

“I’m so jittery, I don’t think I _could_ hit the side of a barn,” Jerry answered breathlessly. Nevertheless, he brought up his rifle.

“It’s an easy shot,” Sandy told him. “Only about forty yards. I’ll try for a head shot. You aim just below the left shoulder. And take off your mittens, idiot.”

Sandy squinted down the long barrel, fixing the sight on a spot directly between the bear’s eyes. Very gently he squeezed the trigger. There was a tremendous explosion and a numbing blow against his shoulder that sent him somersaulting backward off the boulder. He lay there stunned for an instant. Then Jerry grabbed the front of his parka and pulled him to his feet.

“What a recoil,” Sandy mumbled.

“Forget the recoil!” Jerry was hopping up and down in excitement. “You got him! Look! One-shot Steele, that’s you. Bet you could have made a chump out of Buffalo Bill.”

Sandy focused his bleary eyes across the ravine. The Kodiak was just a big mound of motionless fur sprawled out on the ground.

“Come on!” Jerry pulled at Sandy’s arm. “Let’s hurry over there so we can make like big-game hunters when those other guys show up.” Using his rifle as a staff, he started down the slope into the ravine.

Sandy caught up to him at the bottom and grabbed the rifle away from him. “Don’t ever do anything like that again!” he snapped. “You dope! You might have blown your head off—or at least your hand. This is a loaded gun. You’ve got to have respect for it. Never point it at yourself or anyone else.”

Jerry flushed and dropped his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. It was a dopey thing to do. I’m so crazy excited I forgot.”

“Okay.” Sandy handed the rifle back to him and they crashed through the brush and brambles that grew among the trunks of the birches. Scrambling up the far slope, Sandy was aware of a heavy weight banging against his right hip. He slipped his hand into his pocket on that side and touched the cold metal grip of the Colt automatic. He had forgotten about it when he packed the heavy parka away after the sled race.

He had just withdrawn his hand from his pocket when Jerry, who was in the lead, reached the top of the ravine. As his eyes cleared the rim, he stopped short and let out a wild yell. Then the bear lumbered into full view, looming over Jerry like a cat over a very small mouse. The monster’s red-rimmed eyes blazed with hatred and Sandy could see pink foam gleaming on the long, bared fangs. It came to him as an incredible shock that here they were face to face with the most dangerous living thing in all the world—a wounded, pain-crazed Kodiak bear.

“Jerry! The gun! Shoot!” Sandy spat the words out jerkily.

Obeying mechanically, Jerry swung the long barrel up and fired in the same motion. The slug plowed harmlessly between the bear’s legs, kicking up dirt and gravel. But it turned out to be a lifesaving shot. Caught off balance, Jerry was kicked off his feet by the booming recoil and went tumbling head over heels down the steep grade. At the same time Sandy drew out the big .45 pistol and cocked it. Then, as the bear dropped to all fours, with the obvious intention of attacking, Sandy fired at its hairy throat. The Army Colt .45-caliber packs a tremendous wallop. At such close range, it knocked the giant Kodiak back on its haunches.

Sandy pumped the last bullet into the bear’s midsection, then turned and ran down the slope. Jerry was just getting to his feet when he reached the bottom of the ravine. “Find a tall tree and climb it,” Sandy yelled. “Come on!”

Together they stumbled into the woods. Sandy remembered that on their way over they had passed one gnarled birch with a trunk as big around as a man’s waist. In the manner of so many trees of this species, it had branched out into three thick, sturdy limbs at a height of about four feet. Without breaking his stride, Sandy leaped up, planted one foot in the crotch and clawed and shinnied his way up through the branches. He kept climbing until the limb began to bend beneath his weight. Then, with his heart fluttering like a frightened bird, he looked down, half expecting to see his friend in the embrace of the great bear. There was no trace of either Jerry or the Kodiak.

“Here I am,” Jerry’s voice rang out, so startlingly close that Sandy almost lost his hold on the branch. The sight of Jerry swaying back and forth on an adjacent limb at least five feet above him, arms and legs wrapped tightly around it like a monkey, made him weak with relief. In spite of their precarious position, he had to smile.

Jerry was appalled. “He’s hysterical. Stark, raving mad,” he cried. “Sandy! Snap out of it.”

“I’m fine,” Sandy said. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see you up there.”

“Where did you think I’d be? Back there, Indian-wrestling with old Smokey so you could escape?”

“I don’t know how you got up there so fast. I didn’t even see you pass me.”

“Brother,” Jerry said huffily, “if you had been as close to that critter as I was you’d be back in Valley View by now.”

As yet there was still no sign of the bear on the ground below them. Sandy searched the rocky shelf where they had encountered him, but it was empty. The clatter of horses’ hoofs drew his attention back to the side of the ravine they had come from. Professor Stern and the other two men came galloping into view and reined in their horses.

“Here, in the tree!” Sandy hailed them. “We’re up in the tree.”

Stern’s face reflected his relief—and not a little amazement. “What on earth are you doing in a tree? And what were those shots we heard?”

“We shot the bear. Then he came to life again and chased us up here.” Sensing the professor’s understandable confusion, he grinned. “I guess that sounds pretty wild, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does,” Stern admitted. “But never mind that. Where is the bear now?”

“I don’t know.”

Thorsen and Chris Hanson were already starting down into the ravine, rifles ported for action. Stem dismounted and followed them. Cautiously the men made their way through the trees. Before they reached the far side of the ravine the boys lost sight of them.

After several minutes of complete silence, Sandy began to get anxious.

“Maybe that old bear was hiding behind a tree,” Jerry suggested, “and clobbered each one of them as they went by him, like the Indians used to do.”

Finally they heard Stern’s voice calling to them. “You guys can come down now.”

Sandy was puzzled. “That’s funny. I guess the bear got away after all.” He slid hurriedly to the ground.

When they emerged from the birch grove, both boys stopped dead. Sandy shut his eyes tight, opened them, shut them, and opened them again. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The three men were standing at the bottom of the slope, all flashing broad grins. At their feet was the mountainous carcass of the bear.

“You—you sure he’s dead?” Sandy stammered.

“Yeah,” Jerry said. “He’s a tricky one.”

Thorsen jabbed his toe into the shaggy body. “Quite dead, I assure you, my young friends.”

“We had just reached the end of the ravine when we heard the shots,” Professor Stern said. “Now tell us what happened.”

Both talking at once, the boys recited the story of their escapade with the big Kodiak.

“You remember that old movie _King Kong_, where the girl first sees this giant gorilla?” Jerry asked. “Well, that’s how I felt when this thing came at me. Oh broth-er!” He shuddered.

Sandy took out the black Colt pistol. “And this is what saved our lives.”

Thorsen took it from him and examined it admiringly. “A true gem. Do you know how this gun was developed? During the Philippine Insurrection, American troops were being demoralized by fierce Moro tribesmen, savage warriors who carried wicked bolo knives. The Moros would pop up out of the jungle without warning and attack the soldiers at such close quarters that it was impossible for them to use their rifles. And the Moros were so physically powerful that the average pistol couldn’t stop them. Even with a half dozen bullets in them, they could decapitate an enemy with their bolos before they died. The Army Colt .45 was designed especially to stop them. And it did the job well—with one slug.”

“It certainly stopped this monster,” said Chris Hanson.

“But it was a very lucky shot,” Professor Stern tempered his praise. “The first shot you fired with the rifle creased his skull and stunned him. He was probably still whoozy when you ran into him, or you might not have had a chance to get in a second shot. Your last shot severed the jugular vein. It was a very lucky shot,” he emphasized.

“You don’t have to convince me, Professor,” Sandy said soberly. “As of now I am a retired bear hunter.”