Jan scrambled to the top of the rock, still clinging to his gun. The grizzly reared his ponderous bulk against the rock and saw his enemy. The growl he uttered caused cold shivers to begin at the top of the Dutchman’s head and chase one another down his back and into his boots. The only hope he had was in the gun. He thrust it forward and was about to fire, when his bearship lifted his paw and gave it a playful tap, which knocked it out of the poor fellow’s hand, and sent it flying down the other side of the rock. But Jan caught it by the stock and pulled it back. The bear began to climb up the rock, but moved with difficulty, for one leg was useless to him, and every movement was accompanied by a growl of pain. Ben Miffin had by this time loaded his rifle, but the body of Jan was directly between him and the bear, and he dared not fire. The gun of the Dutchman was loaded with a handful of buckshot. As the bear came nearer he lifted the wonderful weapon and pulled trigger. A noise like the report of a small cannon followed, and Jan was knocked headlong from his perch, falling on his head and shoulders nearly ten feet away. He was up in an instant, running for a tree, fearing to feel the claws of the bear in his back at every step. He reached the tree, tugged his weight up to the branches and uttered a shout of joy. He was safe for the present. “How does ye feel?” said Ben from his tree. “You’s nice man to shtand py a frent!” said Jan, in high dudgeon. “You’s goot feller. I dinks I cooms out here goot many dimes more mit you. Off auver a man is a good fiter, he vas fite den mit der pear. You’s a coward, Penn Miffin.” “Yer safe in yer tree, or durn me ef I wouldn’t giv’ ye the darndest lickin’ ye ever got in all yer life. I would, by gravy. Does ye think a man like me is gwine to stand thet thar? I reckon not. I ruther calculate ye’ve barked up the wrong tree. Jest wait tell I git down, and I’ll chop ye inter kindlin’ wood. Thet’s as good as ef I swore to it.” “Where is the bear?” said Jules. “I can’t see him.” “No? Mebbe the Dutchman knocked him over with that blunderbuss of his’n--the darndest weepon! It’s got a muzzle like thet thar little cannon they’ve got at the Mackinaw. Mountain howt’zer they called it. Look sharp again, Jule; kain’t ye see him now?” “Yes, Ben; he lies under the rock, with his head on his paws. He keeps very quiet.” “Mebbe he’s shammin’,” said Ben. “Don’t ye go too nigh the durned critter. It’d be jest like him to git up and go fer ye the minnit yer feet teched the ground. Jan?” “Vat?” “Git down outer that tree and go an’ prick him with yer knife. Ef he don’t git up then we may safely conclude he’s a dead b’ar.” “I ain’t a vool!” said Jan. “I don’t vant nottings more to do mit te pears. You go you’self unt brick him.” “All right,” said Ben, “I’ll do it; and if he is a dead b’ar, I’ll take his sculp.” “Dake him all,” said Jan. “I not vants him. Der duyvel! He ish von plack peast. I vash scared mit him.”