It was June, 1906, and I was working at a small portable sawmill near
Armstrong, British Columbia. George (the boss), Frank, "Texas," Jim,
and myself made the entire crew. "Texas" was so called because of
his frequent references to the State of his birth. For myself, being
English, I was dubbed "Charlie," though it wasn't my proper name.
We had rigged up a fairly decent shack, and, with Jim at the head of
the culinary department, managed to make ourselves pretty comfortable.
The country round was well settled and we were only about six miles
from Armstrong, a rapidly-growing town. There was plenty of bush-land
about, however, some of it very rough, and deer, coyotes, and cougars
were frequently seen, but seldom a bear.
On the evening I am writing about Frank had ridden into town directly
after supper to "have a good time," as he expressed it, and we didn't
expect him back till early morning. The rest of us were sitting around
telling yarns. "Texas" was giving us something extra fine concerning
his good work with a gun. He could usually hold his own at
story-telling, could "Texas," but Jim, in particular, always openly
doubted him. On this occasion he related how he had once bagged a doe
and two fawns with a single shot. Jim guffawed incredulously, and was
rewarded with a look of mild reproach.
"Any o' you fellers seen them bear tracks t'other side the creek?"
asked George, suddenly.
No one had.
"When did you strike them, George?" asked "Texas."
"Just this morning, when I was waterin' the cayuse. They looked kind
of fresh, too."
Now, George was a quiet sort of fellow, but I fancy he knew as much
about hunting as the rest of us put together, and wasn't taking much
notice of the boasting.
"What do you say to a hunt, Jim?" I ventured.
"No, sir; not me," replied Jim, hastily. "I ain't lost no bear."
"You're not scared of a brown bear, surely, Jim?" observed the Texan,
with a grin.
"Well," said Jim, "if there were three bears I'd maybe look around
and have a plug at them, but I don't waste no shell on just one ornery
bear."
"No, I guess not," said "Texas," dryly.
"D'you ever _see_ a live bear?" pursued Jim, offensively.
"Well, I guess I've shot more bear than _you've_ ever seen, Jim,"
retorted the American.
"Maybe you'll hunt this one for us, then," suggested Jim,
sarcastically. "We're all dead scared to sleep here."
"If I run across him at all, I guess there'll be a dead bear around
mighty quick," replied "Texas."
Jim was silent for a moment, then he looked up quickly, struck by a
sudden idea. "Say, Texas," he cried, "s'pose the bear comes around
here, will you take a shot at him?"
"You betcher life!" snapped "Texas."
Thereupon Jim rose, with a look of determination on his face, and
proceeded to set fire to a few sticks. Next, going indoors, he brought
out some sugar, which he threw on the blaze. I had heard somewhere
that the smell of burnt sugar attracted bears from a long distance,
and began to understand what he was about.
Meanwhile, "Texas" looked on cynically, suggesting that if Jim were
to whistle it would have just as much effect. But Jim only said, "You
wait a bit."
Well, we waited a bit, discussing the approaching festivities in
town on the 1st of July (Dominion Day) until the others, I think, had
forgotten all about the bear. About nine o'clock we turned in. We had
bunks fixed up at the end of the shack farthest from the door--three
in a row a little way above the floor, and two more above them. The
table stood right in the centre of the room, and the stove in a corner
by the door.
About eleven o'clock I woke with a start, aroused by an unholy racket
outside. My first thought was that the bear had arrived, but soon I
distinguished the husky tones of Frank, expostulating with the cayuse
while he was taking his saddle off. In a few minutes he stumbled in,
leaving the door wide open, and after a muttered conversation with the
lantern managed to get it alight. By this time all of us were awake,
and we could see that our companion had been imbibing heavily. He had
brought a bottle of whisky back with him, and now, rolling it on the
floor, he started to show us how they rode logs "back home."
After one or two futile attempts to balance himself on the bottle, he
collapsed miserably in a heap, just as Jim flung a heavy logging-boot
at him. He missed Frank, but smashed the lantern, leaving us in the
dark. Frank was grunting and cursing on the floor, trying to strike
the wrong end of a match.
[Illustration: "WHEN HE LOOKED UP AND SAW THE BEAR HE LET OUT A YELL
LIKE A REDSKIN WAR-WHOOP."]
George had just scrambled out of bed to close the door when we heard
a rattling among the old cans and general _débris_ outside the shack,
and a moment later we saw in the doorway, a black blot against the
dark-blue sky, the bear himself! At that critical moment Frank struck
a light. When he looked up and saw the bear he let out a yell like a
redskin war-whoop, and I think he got sober on the spot. Anyway, when
the brute started to come inside Frank knew enough to go round the
other side of the table. Thence he dodged out of the doorway and off
down the road at terrific speed.
Meanwhile, the bear went sniffing along on the other side to where
our bunks were, while George, Jim, and I cleared out hurriedly. It was
quite dark inside the hut, and we all thought "Texas" was with us. Jim
was certainly scared. Once outside, he picked up an axe and went away
down the road so fast that the tail of his nightshirt flew out stiff
behind him. He must have flung the axe away after a while, to expedite
his flight, for we found it quite a long way off in the morning.
Now, "Texas," it subsequently appeared, had slept right on till Frank
gave his yell. Then he sat up, rubbed his eyes leisurely, and caught
sight of the bear. Then he in turn let out a yell or two. Mr. Bear,
somewhat startled, went to the other end of the hut. While he stood
there, sizing up "Texas," and while "Texas" was wishing he was in
mid-ocean, or on a cloud, or some place where there weren't any bears,
George crept in and grabbed his rifle.
Fortunately, he kept his head and didn't fire, or "Texas" might have
got hit, for it was impossible to distinguish objects plainly inside
the shack. Instead of shooting, he started to throw all the small
articles he could lay hands on in the direction of the snuffling and
grunting, and finally the bear went out again. During the latter part
of these proceedings "Texas" had been trying to tear a hole in
the roof, and, standing on his bunk--one of the top ones--had been
successful in ripping off a shingle or two.
Directly Bruin got clear of the shack George let drive. He must have
hit him in the leg, I think, for the brute seemed to limp afterwards.
I was up a tree at the time, and when the next cartridge jammed
I fully expected to see George have a lively time. According to
precedent the bear should have got savage on being hit and made things
interesting; but he must have known better, for he just walked calmly
into the bush and we lost sight of him.
When we tried to get into the shack again we found that the door
wouldn't open. We hammered and yelled, while George showed his mastery
of English idiom, and after a while we heard "Texas" inside moving
one or two pieces of furniture away. You can imagine how sheepish
he looked when we went in, but nobody said a word as we put back the
table and things.
Frank was sitting outside on a pile of stove-wood, ruminating deeply.
I think he had an idea he had seen an imaginary bear, for he vowed
eternal teetotalism for about ten minutes on end. Jim came in last,
shivering with cold, for the evenings in that part of the country are
chilly for a promenade in one's nightshirt.
We all climbed into our bunks again and went to sleep, and I don't
think any of us felt inclined to boast about our evening's work.
George was the only one who had kept cool. But the figure "Texas" had
cut, after all his boasting, was lamentable. He left us a day or two
after, and none of us heard any more of him.
We followed up the bear's tracks next day, but lost them in the thick
bush after a few hundred yards. I think, however, that it was "our"
bear a Siwash Indian shot a little while afterwards about half a
mile off. This tale has now been improved beyond recognition in the
neighbourhood, but mine is the correct version.