, pointing to the horse; 'he's
a little shy in society, but he means well. If you'll move to one
side, we'll pass on.' It was a fool sort of an idea, standing there
and talking to a bear, but I was interested in studying the expression
of his face and seeing how puzzled he seemed to be at the sound of my
voice. He'd rub his ear or his nose once in a while, and then look up,
as though he were saying: 'Just repeat that; I don't quite make out
what you are driving at,' and then he'd assume a look of the most
intense interest. I don't know how long he would have remained there,
but I got tired of the fun and threw a stick at him. It would have hit
him on the nose, but he warded it off very cleverly, and then his
manner changed. He growled a little and began swaying his head from
side to side, and when I saw the green glint come into his eyes--the
danger signal that all the carnivorae flash and all hunters heed--I
knew the time was up for airy persiflage and that I was in for a
'scambling and unquiet time' unless I promptly took up the quarrel. It
was an easy shot, through the throat to the base of the skull, and the
bullet smashed the spinal cord.

"That was the only bear, other than a Grizzly, that I ever saw dispute
the right of way of a man through the woods."

CHAPTER XII.

WELL HEELED.

"Curious how some men will lose their grip on the truth when they talk
about bears," said Mr. Jack Waddell, of Ventura. "There's old Ari
Hopper, for example, a man whose word is good in a hoss trade, but when
he tells about his bear fights he puts your confidence in him to an
awful strain. I don't say that Ari would tell lies, but he puts a
whole lot of fancy frills on his stories and fixes 'em up gorgeous. I
reckon I've run across most as many bears as anybody, but I never had
no such adventures as I read about.

"The most curious bear scrape I ever had was over on the Piru last
spring, and just the plain facts of the case beat anything you ever
heard. There was an old white-headed Grizzly in that part of the
country that did a heap of damage, but nobody had been able to do him
up. They set spring guns for him on the mountain and put out poison
all around, but he'd beat the game every time. Taylor, of the Mutaw
ranch, fixed a spring gun that he thought would fix the old fellow for
sure. It was a big muzzle-loading musket, with a bore as big as an
eight-gauge shotgun, and Taylor loaded it with a double handful