CHAPTER XXIX.

A LUCKY SHOT.

In none of his hunting excursions had Oscar ever been very badly troubled by what is known as the “buck-fever.” It is true that the sight of big game always startled him at first, but when the time came to shoot his hands were as steady as those of Big Thompson himself.

On this occasion, however, all his nerve seemed to desert him completely. Slowly and cautiously he moved out from behind his rock, and, raising his rifle to his shoulder, tried to bring the sights within range of a spot behind the bear’s fore shoulder, near the region of his heart; but the weapon swayed about like a sapling in a gale of wind, and in two seconds’ time he had covered every inch of that side of the bear’s body except the one at which he wished to shoot.

“This will never do!” thought Oscar, drawing in a long breath, as if he hoped in that way to calm his agitated nerves and stop the rapid beating of his heart, which now thumped loudly against his ribs. “If I don’t kill him dead, or disable him at the first shot, my life is not worth a row of pins. If I stay here, or run, it’s an even chance if he don’t discover me and assume the offensive. I don’t know what to do.”

Oscar drew himself a little further back behind his rock, and took a moment in which to think the matter over.

He could not shoot; he dared not retreat; and he was afraid to stay where he was. It looked as though he had got himself into a tight place.

It has been said by those who ought to know, for they have “been there,” that when a person is drowning the whole of his life passes in review before him, like the scenes of a panorama; and Oscar could now affirm, from personal experience, that a boy who unexpectedly finds himself in the presence of a full-grown grizzly has to pass through the same ordeal.

He did, at any rate. He seemed to remember everything he had ever done. Scenes and incidents long since forgotten, and which he had hoped would never be recalled to him, flashed through his mind like lightning.

His heart beat loudly and more rapidly than before, and Oscar became thoroughly frightened when he found that his strength was all leaving him. His rifle seemed to weigh a ton, and he gladly would have laid it down if he had not been afraid of attracting the bear’s attention.

All this while the grizzly stood motionless in his tracks, looking toward the thicket on the opposite side of the glade and listening. He did not appear to be aware of the boy’s presence, for he never once turned his gaze in his direction; but it was plain that something had aroused his suspicions.

Knowing that it would be the height of folly to risk a shot while his nerves were in that condition, the boy also turned his head toward the thicket; but his senses were not as keen as those of the bear, and he could neither see, hear, nor smell anything.

There was something approaching that cluster of bushes, however, and Oscar found it out a few moments later.

All of a sudden a tall figure glided out from behind a tree, and Big Thompson, carrying his rifle at a trail, and keeping his eyes fastened on the snow, moved out into plain view.

Then Oscar saw, for the first time, that the bear’s trail led from that thicket to his den under the rock. The guide, whom the boy supposed to be a mile away at that moment, had found it and was following it up.

He was running right into danger too. His eyes being fastened on the trail, he did not see the bear, which was as close to him as it was to Oscar. At least that was what Oscar thought; but, as it happened, the wary old hunter knew where the bear was as well as his employer did.

The boy’s fears were greatly increased now. For a moment he seemed utterly incapable of moving or speaking; and then, his power of action and speech coming back to him as suddenly as it had deserted him, he sprang to his feet and raised a shout that could have been heard half a mile away.

“Look out there, Thompson!” he yelled. “The bear is right in front of you!”

There is nothing of which the grizzly stands so much in fear as the sound of the human voice.

Numerous instances are on record bearing evidence to the fact that men who have been stricken down and seriously wounded by these fierce animals have saved their lives by setting up piercing shrieks of pain and terror.

This grizzly proved to be as timid as any of his species in this respect. When Oscar’s shout awoke the echoes of the grove he turned quickly; and, giving vent to a hoarse “huff, huff!” which resembled, in everything except volume, the sound uttered by a wild hog when he is suddenly startled, made all haste to get around the rock out of sight; but before he had taken half a dozen steps he was floored by a bullet from Big Thompson’s rifle.

Now it so happened that this veteran hunter was quite as much disconcerted at the sound of Oscar’s voice as the grizzly was. He never dreamed that the boy was anywhere in that vicinity; and if he had held his peace a moment longer the guide would have given a much better account of himself.

As it was, Oscar’s shout of warning disturbed his aim; and instead of killing the bear outright, as he could have done under almost any other circumstances, he only succeeded in inflicting upon him a painful wound, which aroused all the ferocity in his nature at once.

He got upon his feet in an instant, and, uttering growls of rage that made Oscar shiver all over, charged toward the hunter, whose coolness and courage were wonderful to behold.

Having no time to recharge his muzzle loader, Thompson grasped the barrel with both hands, and, swinging the heavy weapon over his head, calmly awaited the onset.

It was a picture for a painter; and on the brow of the hill a little distance away was another picture for that same painter, if he wanted something to represent “Fright.”

There stood Oscar, with open mouth and staring eyes, watching all that was going on below him, and so utterly overcome with terror that he did not know he had a gun in his hands.

Down came the guide’s rifle with tremendous force, and the anxious spectator held his breath in suspense while he awaited the result of the stroke. He fully expected to see the bear tumbled over with a broken head, for it did not seem possible that anything in the shape of a skull could withstand a blow like that.

It was simply terrific. The stock of the rifle, broken short off at the grip, flew ten feet away in one direction, while the barrel, slipping from the hunter’s hand, went whirling through the air in another.

The blow checked the bear for perhaps ten seconds, just long enough to give Big Thompson time enough to gather himself for a jump.

He made half a dozen of them—wonderful jumps they were, too—directing his course toward the hill on which Oscar stood, with the intention of seizing one of the overhanging branches and swinging himself out of the reach of his enraged enemy; but he had not calculated on the depth of the snow, and the first thing he knew he was floundering in a drift that was waist deep.

He was wedged in so tightly that he could scarcely move, while the bear’s superior strength and weight enabled him to work his way through it without the least difficulty.

The fierce animal closed in rapidly upon the now helpless hunter, and Oscar’s first impulse was to take to his heels, in order that he might not see that which would surely follow when the bear came up with him.

But instead of acting upon it he did something else—something that excited Big Thompson’s unqualified admiration, and caused Oscar himself the most unbounded astonishment whenever he thought of it afterward.

He drew his gun to his shoulder, and the solid rock beside which he stood was not steadier than the muzzle of that weapon.

Taking a quick aim at the butt of the bear’s ear, near the place where the spine joins the base of the skull, he pressed the trigger, and the enraged animal fell as if he had been struck by lightning.

So did Oscar, who, as soon as he saw the result of his shot, sunk down beside the rock, at the same time letting go his hold upon his gun, which slid, muzzle foremost, down the hill, and buried itself almost out of sight in the snow.

For a moment or two after that Oscar must have been unconscious. He did not see the guide move; but when he looked toward him again Big Thompson had worked his way out of the drift; and, having picked up the barrel of his rifle, was searching for the stock.

Seeing Oscar sitting at the foot of the rock, he called out to him in a cheery voice:

“Wal, perfessor, if ye haint done it fur Ole Ephraim this time I’m an Injun. What be ye sittin’ up thar fur? Come down an’ take a look at him.”

The boy tried to obey. With great difficulty he arose to an upright position; but his legs refusing to support him, he rolled helplessly down the hill and landed in a snow-drift, from which he was extricated by Big Thompson, who placed him firmly upon his feet.

“Why, perfessor!” he exclaimed with some anxiety, as he gazed into the boy’s pale face; “what’s the matter of ye? Thar aint no color into ye at all.”

“I don’t wonder that I look white,” panted Oscar. “I never before was so badly frightened. I haven’t a particle of strength. I thought you were a goner, sure.”

“Me too,” said Big Thompson cheerfully.

“I must say that you took it very coolly. You didn’t show the least fear. Your face isn’t white.”

“Wal, arter ye have been knocked about the mountains an’ prairies, an’ been snowed an’ rained an’ blowed on as often as I have, ye won’t show much white neither,” was the reply. “Of all the tenderfeet I ever seed yer the best. Put it thar!”

Oscar complied, and an instant afterward made the firm resolution that if he ever again did his guide a service he would not shake hands on the strength of it.

The hunter’s long, bony fingers closed over his palm with almost crushing force, and it was a long time before he forgot the terrible shaking up that followed. This was Big Thompson’s way of showing his gratitude.

“Now,” continued the latter, as he resumed the search for the stock of his rifle, “thar’s nigh on to a thousand pound of bone an’ muscle into that thar feller, an’ it would take us a week to drag him to the shanty; so I say let’s camp here till ye fix him up for stuffin’. We aint got no blankets, but we’ve both got hatchets, an’ firewood is plenty.”

Oscar was only too glad to give his consent to this arrangement. He was so weak from fright that the bare thought of walking to the cabin made him feel as though he wanted to sit down and take a long rest.

Big Thompson evidently understood just how he felt, for he straightway proceeded to strip the boughs from some of the evergreens that stood close by, and when he had piled these boughs under the overhanging rock he seated Oscar upon them.

After that he rolled the bear upon a drag, drew it up under the rock, and having started a roaring fire, picked up his employer’s breech loader and went out to shoot something for supper.

“Ye needn’t be oneasy, kase I shan’t go fur away,” said he as he was about to set off. “I don’t reckon ye feel so pert as usual arter seein’ Ole Eph with his dander riz, so I’ll kinder keep within shootin’ distance of ye.”

Big Thompson disappeared in the grove, and Oscar, with that delicious feeling of relief and contentment which a weary traveller experiences when he reaches his comfortable home and sinks into his easy-chair after a long, tiresome, and dangerous journey, settled back on his fragrant couch and feasted his eyes on the grizzly. He was like a boy with his first pair of skates—he could look at nothing else.