Just at dawn he noted a clear space among large trees on a knoll a little way from the brook, which now had grown to a considerable creek. He reconnoitred and, finding no trace of an enemy, built a fire. While broiling a piece of the venison it occurred to him that he should husband what was left of the meat as it might be a long time before he could find venison, killed and dressed by Indians, awaiting him along the route. Accordingly, after eating a hearty breakfast, he cut crotched sticks and drove them into the ground on either side of the fire and placed green poles across, over the fire. By hanging the meat on these he planned to smoke and dry what remained, after cutting it into strips. Rodney seemed to forget about both Indians and the bear and was whistling softly as he worked when a noise behind him caused him to turn. Not over fifteen feet away was the bear! He smelled the cooking meat and evidently was in an ugly mood. Scarcely thinking what he did, the boy, snatching a brand from the fire, threw it full in the face of the brute and sprang for his rifle. The firebrand only seemed to infuriate the animal and he charged. Hastily Rodney fired. A growl of rage and pain followed the report, and through the clearing smoke the boy saw the bear biting at the wound in his side. Round and round bruin whirled until he caught a glimpse of his assailant, when he rushed forward. As in a haze the boy saw the huge bulk almost upon him, the little fiery eyes gleaming like coals of fire, the open jaws flecked with bloody froth. The boy clubbed his rifle with no thought of running. The bear rose on his hind legs. One blow from his powerful paw, and all would be over. Rodney struck, shattering the stock of the gun, and sprang aside. He now was helpless! The bear, full of fight, struck, his claws ripping the boy's sleeve. Crack! A well-aimed shot from behind brought bruin down with scarcely a struggle and the huge bulk lay stretched at Rodney's feet. A child's scream of delight followed the shot. A white boy of about ten years, accompanied by an Indian, came out of the thick woods, the little fellow crying, "He's mine. I want him, Caughnega." To this pleading the Indian paid no heed. Confronting Rodney he demanded, with a sweep of his arm: "Pale face no hunt; Indian country." Rodney, by this time, was in a somewhat hysterical condition. The idea that he was there for the pleasure or profit of hunting bears struck him as so ludicrous that he laughed loudly, a performance that evidently puzzled the redskin not a little. The little fellow here renewed his plea, saying: "I saw him first and I want him to play with; he's mine," and he stamped his foot like a petty tyrant and seized Rodney by the hand, saying, "You'll play with Louis?" "I'll be very glad to do so," Rodney replied, looking at the Indian rather than at the boy who tugged at his hand. "No hunt, what for here?" the Indian asked and his voice was stern.