Budd Boyd's Triumph Part 32

On finding that the bear could not climb the tree, Allan experienced a feeling of relief so great that his fear and despair departed. He accordingly looked down calmly upon his enemy, and expected that in a short time he would give up his pursuit and go away. But the bear did nothing of the kind. As long as Allan looked at him, he looked at Allan, and showed a power of patient watchfulness that was in the highest degree creditable to his bearship, but in the last degree distressing to Allan.

Hours pa.s.sed, and Allan gave up all ideas of escape for that night. He therefore prepared to pa.s.s the night as best he could. After all it was not uncomfortable. The rock was hard, it is true, but Allan's California life had habituated him to hard beds, so that he could sleep even here. And sleep he did. Slumber came over him after sunset, and he slept on as only a California miner can, until some time after sunrise.

On awaking his first thoughts were about his enemy. Slowly and cautiously he raised his head and looked down. That one short glance was enough. For there, in the same place, lay the grizzly bear, with his head upraised in such a way that his fierce, keen eyes encountered those of Allan as he looked anxiously down. At this sight Allan sank back, and a feeling of utter despair came over him.

He was both hungry and thirsty. His bones also were sore from a sleep on this rough resting place, and the misery of his confinement affected his mind. But what could he do? Again and again the question occurred, What could he do?

In his despair there at last came to him one idea which held out to him a chance of escape. It was a very original idea, and could only have occurred to one like him in his last extremity.

He had no arms, but he had his horn full of blasting powder, and in his pockets he had also his blasting fuse. He had matches also.

Now, though he had no firearms, yet in these he had the material by which firearms gave all their efficiency. Necessity is the mother of invention, and so Allan's dire necessity roused all the inventive faculty of his mind.

It was a plan which could only be tried once. If it failed he was lost; if it succeeded he was saved. He could not wait; so he at once prepared to put his plan in execution.

He took his powder-horn, filled as it was with blasting powder, and in this he inserted a piece of blasting fuse.

It thus became a bomb sh.e.l.l, roughly made, it is true, yet none the less effective for all that. Then he took off his shirt, and tearing it up into small ribbons, he formed a long line. Fastening this to the horn he lighted the fuse, and then slowly lowered it.

At this extraordinary proceeding, all the well-known curiosity of the bear was aroused. He watched the horn solemnly, as it descended, and then as it came low down, he walked up to it and smelled it.

The smell of the burning fuse was offensive, and he expressed his disgust by a low growl.

At last the horn lay on the ground.

The bear was both puzzled and offended. He put his nose close down to it, and snuffed again and again at the b.u.t.t of the horn. From above Allan watched with a quick-beating heart.

Suddenly there rang out a tremendous explosion, and a great cloud of smoke rolled up, hiding everything from view. Allan peered cautiously through this, but could see nothing for a long time.

But though nothing met his eyes, his ears were aware of a chaos of sounds--fierce growls of rage and pain--howls, shrieks and yells, all of which proved plainly that very severe damage had been done to somebody.

At last the smoke cleared away, and then Allan saw the bear. From his head, and breast, and forepaws the hair was all singed off; the skin was blackened to the hue of soot; his fiery eyes gleamed no more; they were tight shut, and with growls of agony the monster rushed frantically about, tossing, and jumping, and rolling over and over. The explosion had blinded him, and the fierce animal, in his blindness, presented a spectacle that was terrible to witness.

In his wild leaps and tumbles he went about in all directions, not knowing where. His agony had driven from him all thoughts of his late enemy.

Allan now sprang to the tree and quickly descended. He ran to his hut and seized his rifle and revolver. Then he hurried back. The bear was still writhing and rolling about in his blindness. One well directed shot, however, put an end to the monster's sufferings.

Allan did not care about remaining much longer in this place, but soon after he returned to San Francisco, bringing with him a sufficient amount of gold to satisfy his wishes, and with this he brought the skin of the grizzly bear.

AN AFTERNOON AT SAGAMORE POND.

It was about the middle of March. We were fishing up at the Sagamore Pond--Rod Nichols and myself; fishing through the ice for pickerel.

When the country in this part of Maine was first settled, the Sagamore, as well as all the other ponds and lakes, abounded with lake trout, or, as they were then called, _togue_ trout--great, broad-backed fellows, weighing from twelve to twenty pounds. But it was foolishly supposed by the early settlers that it would be better to have pickerel instead, of trout in these waters. So pickerel were put into nearly every pond and lake in this section. They are the most voracious of fish, very strong and savage, and soon destroyed the trout.

Those of the Sagamore are larger than the pickerel in most of the ponds.

It takes a strong line to get them out of the water. Through a hole in the ice this is more easily done; but it is no small job to cut such a hole when the ice is two feet thick. Rod and I were an hour and a half hacking ours with a hatchet, that afternoon.

It was not far from the sh.o.r.e--eight or ten rods, perhaps--but between us and the bank there was a wide, open place, worn away, or thawed, by a "springhole" along the sh.o.r.e. The afternoon sunbeams, falling on the gla.s.s-bright surface, were reflected under the ice, and lighted up the water as far out as where we had made our hole. We could thus see all that was going on under us, though the water was nearly twenty feet deep.

We had fished in this place before, and knew how to take advantage of this clear water, for it's always pleasant to see what one's about. It is fully half the sport to see the fish biting.

After skimming our hole, we dropped in a hook baited with a _shiner_--we had a jug full of them--and waited for a bite; watched and waited patiently and confidently, but it didn't come. Not a fish could be seen in all the clear depths beneath. This was unusual, as well as vexatious, for the Sagamore was known to be well stocked with pickerel, and they generally took the hook readily. But an hour pa.s.sed without so much as a nibble at our bait.

It was a fine, sunny afternoon. Everything was still. There was not even the cawing of crows to be heard. Presently, looking across to the sh.o.r.e, we saw a large black creature watching us from an old pine stump, that was some four or five rods from the water.

"Fisher-cat, isn't it?" said Rod.

It did look like one, certainly. It was black, and about the same size.

"Suppose he'd show fight if we should go round there?" continued Rod, looking leisurely for the hatchet.

Poor success fishing had made him a little pugnacious, I suppose; and a scrimmage with a fisher-cat, or carcajoe, when you can get one to face about, isn't bad fun for those who enjoy such sport, and are willing to run the risk of getting scratched and bitten.

In explanation, I should say that the "fisher-cat" is a member of the weasel family. Naturalists call it the _Mustela Canadensis_, or Canada weasel; a pretty big weasel, to be sure. Hunters and trappers hate it most heartily, for it will follow them all day on their rounds, taking the bait out of their traps as fast as they can set them.

Well, if we could not catch any pickerel, perhaps a little fracas with Mr. Snarly-face, over there, would be the next best thing; and I was just drawing up my line, when there came a heavy tug at the bait, nearly jerking the line from my hands. There was not only one tug, but a series of tugs and rushes to and fro, making the water fairly boil in the hole.

I had hooked a big one, and he was testing the line to the utmost, and rasping it across the sharp edges of the ice. Holding it steadily, however, the struggle gradually ceased, and looking down into the water, we saw a n.o.ble fellow, slowly waving his fins on the sand, at the bottom of the pond.

"Isn't he a thumper!" exclaimed Rod. "Five or six pounds, certain!

Fish enough for one day."

He had become pretty docile, and I had drawn him up within six or seven feet of the surface, when, with a sudden plunge, a long, dark animal darted through the water, and seizing the fish, pa.s.sed out of sight under the ice, like a black streak. I pulled sharply at the line, once, twice--then it snapped.

Here was a surprise.

"What on earth was that?" cried Rod.

But there was nothing further to be seen. A few bubbles came struggling up through the water, but the creature had gone, and so had the fish.

"It couldn't have been that fisher-cat," said Rod.

"No, indeed! Who ever heard of a fisher-cat, or any other cat, swimming ten rods under water!"

"But he is gone from the stump."

"Well, let him go. That wasn't him."

"What was it, then?"

That was a question easier asked than answered. We were fairly "stuck,"

as Rod expressed it, and stood staring into the hole. Suddenly there was a wavy motion, deep down, below the surface, and we saw the creature shoot back, by the hole, with the fish in his mouth. We had just a dim, refractive glimpse, and he had pa.s.sed, going toward the sh.o.r.e. We looked in that direction, and a few seconds after, saw a flat, black head pop up a moment into sight from the open water, and, then it disappeared. We watched for some minutes, but it did not come up again.