Presently I heard a shout. I could not tell where it came from, but I
replied. A second call I identified as coming from high up the ragged
canyon side, and I started up. It was hard work. Certainly no bears or
hunter had climbed out just here. At length, sore, spent, and torn, I fell
out of a tangle of brush upon the edge of the canyon. Above me rose the
swelling mountain slope thickly covered with dwarf pines.
"This way, youngster!" called the old hunter from my left.
A few more dashes in and out of the brush and trees brought me to a fairly
open space with not much slope. Hiram Bent stood under a pine, and at his
feet lay a black furry mass.
"Wal, I heerd you shoot. Reckon you got yourn?"
"Yes, I killed him. . . . Say, Mr. Bent, I don't like traps."
"Nary do I--for bears," replied he, shaking his gray head. "A trapped bear
is about the pitifulest thing I ever seen. But it's seldom one ever gits
into trap of mine."
"This one you shot must be the old mother bear. Where's the cub? Did it get
away?"
"Not yet. Lookup in the tree."
I looked up the black trunk through the network of slender branches, and
saw the bear snuggling in a fork. His sharp ears stood up against the sky.
He was most anxiously gazing down at us.
"Wal, tumble him out of thar," said Hiram Bent.
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