and following that, the full chorus of the hounds. They
had treed the bear. Coming into still more open forest, with rocks
here and there, I caught sight of R.C. far ahead, and soon I had
glimpses of the other horses, and lastly, while riding full tilt, I
spied a big, black, glistening bear high up in a pine a hundred yards
or more distant.

Slowing down I rode up to the circle of frenzied dogs and excited men.
The boys were all jabbering at once. Teague was beaming. R.C. sat his
horse, and it struck me that he looked sorry for the bear.

"Fifteen minutes!" ejaculated Teague, with a proud glance at Old Jim
standing with forepaws up on the pine.

Indeed it had been a short and ringing chase.

All the time while I fooled around trying to photograph the treed
bear, R.C. sat there on his horse, looking upward.

"Well, gentlemen, better kill him," said Teague, cheerfully. "If he
gets rested he'll come down."

It was then I suggested to R.C. that he do the shooting.

"Not much!" he exclaimed.

The bear looked really pretty perched up there. He was as round as a
barrel and black as jet and his fur shone in the gleams of sunlight.
His tongue hung out, and his plump sides heaved, showing what a quick,
hard run he had made before being driven to the tree. What struck me
most forcibly about him was the expression in his eyes as he looked
down at those devils of hounds. He was scared. He realized his peril.
It was utterly impossible for me to see Teague's point of view.

"Go ahead--and plug him," I replied to my brother. "Get it over."

"You do it," he said.

"No, I won't."

"Why not--I'd like to know?"

"Maybe we won't have so good a chance again--and I want you to get
your bear," I replied.

"Why it's like--murder," he protested.

"Oh, not so bad as that," I returned, weakly. "We need the meat. We've
not had any game meat, you know, except ducks and grouse."

"You won't do it?" he added, grimly.

"No, I refuse."

Meanwhile the young ranchers gazed at us with wide eyes and the
expression on Teague's honest, ruddy face would have been funny under
other circumstances.

"That bear will come down an' mebbe kill one of my dogs," he
protested.

"Well, he can come for all I care," I replied, positively, and I
turned away.

I heard R.C. curse low under his breath. Then followed the spang of his
.35 Remington. I wheeled in time to see the bear straining upward in
terrible convulsion, his head pointed high, with