ith the dogs
a-top o' him. Soon's I could shoot without hittin' a dog, I let him have
it. Thought I'd shot him through the head, but he fit on. Then I jumped
down into the sink and kicked him loose from the dogs, or he'd a-killed
Coaly. Waal, sir, he wa'n't hurt a bit--the ball jest glanced off his
head. He riz an' knocked me down with his left paw, an' walked right
over me, an' lit up the ridge. The dogs treed him in a minute. I went to
shoot up at him, but my new hulls [cartridges] fit loose in this old
chamber and this one drap [dropped] out, so the gun stuck. Had to git my
knife out and fix hit. Then the dad-burned gun wouldn't stand roostered
[cocked]; the feather-spring had jumped out o' place. But I held back
with my thumb, and killed him anyhow.

"Fellers," he added feelingly, "I wish t' my legs growed
hind-side-fust."

"_What_ fer?"

"So 's 't I wouldn't bark my shins!"

"Bears," remarked John, "is all left-handed. Ever note that? Hit's the
left paw you wanter look out fer. He'd a-knocked somethin' out o' yer
head if there'd been much in it, Doc."

"Funny thing, but hit's true," declared Bill, "that a bear allers dies
flat on his back, onless he's trapped."

"So do men," said "Doc" grimly; "men who've been shot in battle. You go
along a battlefield, right atter the action, and you'll find most o' the
dead faces pintin' to the sky."

"Bears is almost human, anyhow. A skinned bear looks like a great
big-bodied man with long arms and stumpy legs."

I did not relish this turn of the conversation, for we had two bears to
skin immediately. The one that had been hung up over night was frozen
solid, so I photographed her standing on her legs, as in life. When it
came to skinning this beast the job was a mean one; a fellow had to drop
out now and then to warm his fingers.

The mountaineers have an odd way of sharing the spoils of the chase.
They call it "stoking the meat," a use of the word _stoke_ that I have
never heard elsewhere. The hide is sold, and the proceeds divided
equally among the hunters, but the meat is cut up into as many pieces as
there are partners in the chase; then one man goes indoors or behind a
tree, and somebody at the carcass, laying his hand on a portion, calls
out: "Whose piece is this?"

"Granville Calhoun's," cries the hidden man, who cannot see it.

"Whose is this?"

"Bill Cope's."

And so on down the line. Everybody gets what chance determines for him,
and there can be no