ld lift, had roared and bellowed down the slope,
narrowly missing the trunk of the great spruce, changing the contour of
the creek bed and concealing its landmarks, and only a square yard of
the original entrance was left. This opening was concealed by a little
cluster of young spruce that had sprung up in the fallen earth. Yes,
old Ephraim had had every reason to believe that no one would find him
or break his sleep, and he was all the more angry at the interruption.

The falling tree had made a frightful crash just over his head, and even
the deep coma in which the grizzly lay was abruptly dissolved. He
sprang up, ready to fight. A little gleam of sunlight ventured through
the spruce thicket, down into the mouth of the cavern, and lay like a
patch of gold on the cavern floor. It served to waken some slight
degree of interest in the snowy world without. It might be well to look
around a moment, at least, before he lay down to sleep again. At least
he had to scrape more snow over the cabin mouth. And in the meantime he
might be lucky enough to find the dearest delight in his life,--a
good, smashing, well-matched fight to cool the growing anger in his
great veins.

Ephraim was an old bear, used to every hunting wile, and his disposition
hadn't improved with years. He was the undisputed master of the forest,
and he couldn't think of any particular enemy that he would not
encounter with a roar of joy. As often, in the case of the old, his
teeth were rotting away; and the pain was a darting, stabbing devil in
his gums. His little, fierce eyes burned and smoldered with wrath, he
grunted deep in his throat, and he pushed out savagely through the
cavern maw. It was only a step farther through the spruce thicket into
the sunlight. And at the first glance he knew that his wish was coming
true.

Three figures, two abreast and one behind, came mushing through the
little pass where the creek flowed. He knew them well enough. There
were plenty of grizzly traditions concerned with them. He recognized
them in an instant as his hereditary foes,--the one breed that had not
yet learned to give him right-of-way on the trail. They were tall,
fearful forms, and something in their eyes sent a shudder of cold clear
to his heart, yet he was not in the humor to give ground. His nerves
were jumpy and unstrung from the fall of the tree, his jaw wracked him;
a turn of the hair might decide whether he would merely stand and let