A SHE-BEAR AND HER CUB.
Before my feet were thoroughly toughened--that is to say, when I was
still to some extent a tenderfoot--I joined, single-handed, in an
undertaking which had more chances for failure than almost anything that
can be imagined. It wasn't a trip to the moon, neither was it an attempt
to wipe out the then powerful Sioux nation, but it was worse than either
of these.
On Wagon-hound creek, one summer day, when our outfit was in camp for
several hours, I strolled away from camp alone. It was early summer,
probably July, and everything was green and fresh. Three miles from camp
I came upon signs of life--the limb of a wild plum tree broken and
hanging to the ground. The first impression was that there were prowling
Indians in the neighborhood. The grass had also been trampled. The plums
were only half ripe, and after gathering a few, I dropped over an
embankment into the creek bottom, where I saw a large track in the soft
silt; it was almost the shape of a human hand. There was a smaller one
of the same character. These I followed, clutching a small "pop-gun" of
the Derringer variety. After turning several curves of the creek I
suddenly came upon my quarry--a big she-bear and a cub. The former
snorted and made for me, and, sensibly pocketing my revolver, I lifted
myself out of the creek bottom by grasping a convenient overhanging root
of a tree; but almost simultaneously the she-bear was beside me.
Then began as pretty a race as you ever witnessed. It is a pity none saw
it.
Fortunately I had only a few nights before been a silent listener to
several camp-fire yarns of old-timers, one of which contained some
advice about a man who finds himself in the predicament I now was in.
Before me was a bald hill rising perhaps 200 or 300 feet, covered with
sage and other brush. Up I flew. My feet were like wings. But Mrs. Bear,
though heavy, was able to keep within ten feet of my heels until I
reached the top. Then as I almost felt her warm breath I wheeled and ran
down hill. This was tactics I had heard at the camp-fire and it saved
me, too, for Mrs. Bear, being set up heavier behind than in front, and
having long hind legs and short front ones, was obliged to come down
slowly and sidewise at that.
Her cub had stayed at the bottom of the hill, whining, and as I reached
him I gave him a kick in the jaw and there was some more zig-zagging,
fast running and heart palpitation, although I felt somewhat relieved
when, looking over my shoulder, I saw Mother Bear licking her cub's
face.
Later on I sneaked into camp and tried to keep my secret; but I looked
and acted queerly, and finally told the story. In ten minutes five of us
were on the way to the site of my encounter, all mounted.
We soon discovered Mrs. Bear and her cub, and the boss insisted that I
should have the first shot at her with a Winchester. I took good aim and
fired, but saw the dirt fly a rod behind the old lady. It was a bad
miss. Then "Sailor Jack" Walton sent a bullet into her heart and the
rest of us lariated and captured the baby, which we took to Fort Laramie
and gave to an army officer's wife.