With that he stooped and deftly cut a circle around the head of the dead cub, lifting off its scalp with the ears attached. Then he set to work on the big bear and in an incredibly short space of time, he had stripped off the heavy pelt and rolled it up, hair inside. From the haunches he cut some chunks of meat which he pierced with a sharp stick and swung over his shoulder. And whistling to the hounds, he picked up his rifle and powder-horn and set out along the bank. Abe kept the boat within sight of him except when the high cane occasionally swallowed him up. The lanky Indiana boy had little to say as he worked the boat slowly down-channel. “What about it, Abe?” chattered Allen. “Think ye kin throw him? He looks powerful stout to me. Don’t you count on keepin’ that b’ar too durn much, Tad.” But Tad, looking up into the weather-tanned countenance of the steersman, saw a twinkle, deep in the gray eyes, that reassured him. “Why,” said he to Allen, “you told me yourself he could throw anybody on the river.” “On Little Pigeon, that was,” Allen amended. “I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout the Mississippi.” Below them a sandy point thrust out from the Tennessee bank, where the river was making land faster than the rank growth could cover it. There the hunter paused and waved to them to come ashore. They tied the flatboat to a stump a little way above, where there was water enough to land, and strolled down to the sand-bar. Tad led the cub by a piece of rope knotted about its neck. The stranger was already stripping for action. He pulled off his leather hunting-frock and his inside shirt of wool and stood forth naked to the waist, his big, muscular arms and mighty chest gleaming in the sun. Abe made similar preparations. To Tad’s joy, the long-limbed Hoosier appeared no less impressive than his rival. There was a look of whalebone toughness in the tall lad’s physique that made up for any difference in bulk. As they faced each other, the hunter seemed to swell, visibly, like a ruffling rooster. “Whoopee!” he crowed. “I’m the high-an’-mighty boss b’ar-killer o’ the Tennessee bottoms. When I open my mouth all the big b’ars an’ little b’ars fer a hundred mile up an’ down the river start skedaddlin’. I’d ruther wrastle than eat, an’ I give ye warnin’, I’m gwine ter git that cub, or my name ain’t Davy Crockett!” He accompanied all this with a droll flapping of the arms, and as he shouted the last words he launched himself through the air at his young adversary. CHAPTER VIII