There was something deadly about the slow advance of the bear, her head sunk between hulking shoulders, and her lips curled back savagely over her great, keen eye-teeth. Cool and tense, the man pulled off his coonskin cap with his left hand. And at the moment when the bear lunged toward him, he waved the furry headgear, with its big, flapping tail, almost in her face. There was a great splash of water as the enraged brute struck downward at the moving object. And so swiftly that the boys’ eyes could scarcely follow it, the hunter’s foot-long blade was driven home behind her left shoulder. A vivid spurt of crimson tinged the water, and the huge animal made for the shore with a convulsive bound that swept her adversary off his feet. He was up the next instant, shaking the water out of his hair, and with the knife held ready, he followed his victim up the bank. There was no need for another blow. Halfway out of the water, the bear had coughed and stumbled, and when he reached her there was only a limp furry bulk at the edge of the cane. The crew of the flatboat had watched this encounter, speechless except for a shout or two of encouragement. Now, as the victor drove off the dogs and stooped to examine the slain cub, Allen looked around with a grin of admiration. “Phew!” he breathed. “No wonder they call ’em half a horse an’ half an alligator. Chase a b’ar ’cross country, ketch up with her, an’ kill her with a knife in four foot o’ water! Glory be!” The man wrung some of the water out of his fringed buckskin shirt, then turned toward the _Katy Roby_. Abe was still holding the boat against the current, bracing his weight on the long steering-sweep. It was to him that the hunter now addressed himself. “Wal, stranger,” he said, “who does that-air cub belong to--you or me?” He spoke without heat, in a clear, drawling voice that had a steely ring in its undertone. Abe was silent, looking back at him appraisingly. The man was big-framed, powerfully muscled, lean as a stag. He had straight black hair, worn long, after the fashion of the Tennessee hunters. His strong, fearless face with its big hooked nose looked like an Indian’s. “Ye see, b’ar scalps is wu’th a dollar apiece in Nashville,” the hunter proceeded. “The old un’s skin’ll bring mebbe four dollars more, but I’ve been trackin’ these three fer nigh a week. That’s how I make my livin’, mostly.” Abe looked down at the cub, which squatted between Tad’s knees, licking its fur dry with a long pink tongue. “’Pears like the leetle feller got away, fair an’ square,” he replied. “He’d have made the other bank if we hadn’t been thar to pick him up. An’ I reckon the boy here would like to keep him. Tell ye what I’ll do. I’ll wrastle ye fer him.” The man on the bank shot a keen glance at Abe. “Huh!” said he. “Good ’nough. Quick as I kin git this job done, we’ll slip on down to the next cleared spot an’ see ’bout it.”