"Did you say shoot?"
Paul Jackson was still in a daze, bewildered by this thing that could
not be but was. The bear was four hundred yards away when he raised his
rifle a second time, shot and succeeded only in speeding the running
beast on its way. He lowered his rifle and muttered, "I guess I'm not a
very good hunter."
"Nobody connects every time."
The bear was running full speed toward the old mine tunnel. Surprised,
its first thought had been to put distance between the hunter and
itself, but now it was planning very well. The old tunnel had one outlet
that led into a dense thicket of laurel. Certainly the bear knew all
about this and he would go into the thicket. Definitely, he was lost to
the young hunter.
Then, within the mouth of the old tunnel itself, another rifle cracked
spitefully. The running bear swapped ends, rolled over and lay still.
Alex Jackson emerged from the tunnel.
* * * * *
Twenty minutes later, when Paul and Ted reached him, he was sitting
quietly beside his trophy and looking at it with unbelieving eyes. But
they were wonderfully happy eyes. Long ago he had dreamed his dream.
Now--and probably it never had been before and never would be again in
hunting annals--he had seen it come true. He looked dreamily up at Ted
and Paul and his voice was proof that, whether it's bringing down a
bear, shooting a hole-in-one, or playing a perfect game of chess, any
dream can be as bright as the dreamer makes it.
"It charged," he said.
10