The dull report re-echoed
from wall to wall. The bear lurched slightly, and his head fell upon his
outstretched paws. I waited, ready to shoot again upon the slightest
movement, but there was none.
With rifle ready I cautiously approached the bear. As I came close he
seemed larger and larger, but he showed no signs of life. I looked at the
glossy black fur, the flecks of blood on the side of his head where my
bullet had entered, the murderous saw-teeth of the heavy trap biting to the
bone, and the cruelty of that trap seemed to drive from me all pride of
achievement. It was nothing except mercy to kill a trapped crippled bear
that could not run or fight. Then and there I gained a dislike for trapping
animals.
The crack of the old hunter's rifle made me remember that I was to hurry
back up the other canyon, so I began to run. I bounded from stone to stone,
dashed over the sand-bars, jumped the brook, and went down that canyon
perhaps in far greater danger of bodily harm than when I had gone up.
But when I turned the corner it was another story. The first canyon had
been easy climbing compared to this one. It was narrow, steep, and full of
dead pines fallen from above. Running was impossible. I clambered upward
over the loose stones, under the bridges of pines, round the boulders.
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