Ben got down from the tree and crept cautiously toward the rock, keeping it between himself and the bear. He reached it and drew himself carefully up the side. He found the gun lying on the rock where Jan had dropped it, and then, creeping forward, he looked down upon the grizzly. The first look was enough, and he hailed his companions with a shout. “Safe?” said Jules. “Dead as a hammer,” replied Ben. Jules slid down from his tree and hastened to join his companion. The grizzly lay where he fell, and they could see that the heavy charge of the roer had passed into the ear of the dead brute, and blown a passage completely through his head. “Vell, vat you dinks?” said Jan, still in his tree. “If youse vool me, unt dat pear ish not deat, I gits mad ash ter tuyvel.” “Dead enough,” said Ben; “it’s all your durned luck. Come down and see him.” Jan slowly left his tree, and came toward them in a hesitating manner, not yet satisfied that the savage was _sufficiently_ dead to be safe. But even he was satisfied when he saw the hole the charge had made. “Dere,” he said, “vat vas I dell you ven you laugh at mine gun. Dat ish goot gun; more ash petter ash goot. It kill dish pear. All right. Vy den you not kill him mit der little gun, eh?” “Could do it, ef I had a chaince ter put the barrel clost to his head,” said Ben. “Yaw. Vy you not _do_ it, den?” said Jan. “Nobotty dinks you dare do it. I vash not ’vraid, I vash not clime a dree all pecause off a little pear like dat. I kills him mineself.” “Ye run fast enough after ye shot yer blunderbuss,” said Ben. “But that ain’t it. Let’s git our hosses back again. I kin git mine easy enough.” “How?” said Jules. “This way,” replied Ben, raising his fingers to his lips. A loud, clear whistle rung through the hills. Directly after they heard the swift beat of coming hoofs, and the three horses appeared in view, led by the horse of Miffin. He advanced and seized his property, and the faithful animal laid his head against his master, whinnying his gladness. Ben stood a moment stroking his shining mane and his small, shapely head. The horse was a model of his kind--of the mustang breed so much in use upon the prairies. Of middle size, a pure white, with small head, deep chest and long body, with keen eyes and the light step of the deer. There is no better breed of horses in the world. “Yes, yes, old boy,” said the trapper; “ye are one thet will always come at _my_ whistle, no matter when I sound it.” “Where did you get him?” said Jules, coming up, with the bridle of his own horse across his arm. “From the Crows,” said Ben. “They are my friends yit. I’ll never need one on the prairies. I go back to them onc’t in a while and they always make a feast.” “The horse is a beauty,” said Jules, glancing at him.