Junior High School Literature, Book 1Elson, William H. (William Harris)
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Junior High School Literature, Book 1
Elson, William H. (William Harris)
American literature; English literature; Readers
At last, as I was thinking of turning toward camp, I stole up to the
crest of one of the ridges, and looked over into the valley some sixty
yards off. Immediately I caught the loom of some large, dark object; and
another glance showed me a big grizzly walking slowly off with his head
down. He was quartering to me, and I fired into his flank, the bullet,
as I afterward found, ranging forward and piercing one lung. At the shot
he uttered a loud, moaning grunt and plunged forward at a heavy gallop,
while I raced obliquely down the hill to cut him off. After going a
few hundred feet he reached a laurel thicket, some thirty yards broad,
and two or three times as long, which he did not leave. I ran up to the
edge and there halted, not liking to venture into the mass of twisted,
close-growing stems and glossy foliage. Moreover, as I halted, I heard
him utter a peculiar, savage kind of whine from the heart of the brush.
Accordingly, I began to skirt the edge, standing on tiptoe and gazing
earnestly to see if I could not catch a glimpse of his hide. When I
was at the narrowest part of the thicket, he suddenly left it directly
opposite, and then wheeled and stood broadside to me on the hill-side, a
little above. He turned his head stiffly toward me; scarlet strings of
froth hung from his lips; his eyes burned like embers in the gloom.
I held true, aiming behind the shoulder, and my bullet shattered the
point or lower end of his heart, taking out a big nick. Instantly the
great bear turned with a harsh roar of fury and challenge, blowing the
bloody foam from his mouth, so that I saw the gleam of his white fangs;
and then he charged straight at me, crashing and bounding through the
laurel bushes, so that it was hard to aim. I waited until he came to a
fallen tree, raking him as he topped it with a ball which entered his
chest and went through the cavity of his body, but he neither swerved
nor flinched, and at the moment I did not know that I had struck him. He
came steadily on, and in another second was almost upon me. I fired for
his forehead, but my bullet went low, entering his open mouth, smashing
his lower jaw and going into the neck. I leaped to one side almost as I
pulled trigger; and through the hanging smoke the first thing I saw was
his paw as he made a vicious side blow at me. The rush of his charge
carried him past. As he struck he lurched forward, leaving a pool of
bright blood where his muzzle hit the ground; but he recovered himself
and made two or three jumps onward, while I hurriedly jammed a couple of
cartridges into the magazine, my rifle holding only four, all of which I
had fired. Then he tried to pull up, but as he did so his muscles seemed
suddenly to give way, his head drooped, and he rolled over and over like
a shot rabbit. Each of my first three bullets had inflicted a mortal
wound.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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