Remembering to keep the barrel pointed from him and to guard the trigger, he toiled at white heat and dragged the thing up the ladder, "'Cause there may be trouble, and if there _is_ trouble a high spot is the place for me." He took a peep. The thief had already thrown away another armload, at the same place in the fence, almost under the window. She was in the field. When she came back again she would be very close to him. He knew he could hit her. He meant to swing the rifle to his shoulder and to take careful aim. He braced his feet. He made the start. But he could not--he could _not_--positively _could not_ raise that gun to his shoulder. It was more than five feet long and weighed a dozen pounds. But nothing could stop him now. "I'll have to set it on a rest." He pulled an old spinning-wheel close to the window. The bar held the gun at an angle, sloping downward. The distaff kept the butt from slipping. He sighted along the barrel's shining steel, training it on the length of fence where the bear was sure to come. There was a queer thumping under his galluses. "I can't point it at her. But--if--she--gets--in--range--" He held his eye on the sight and waited. He waited and waited and waited and waited. He grew numb with crouching and goose-fleshed with suspense. "Suppose she went out the other way! Suppose she climbed some other part of the fence. Suppose-- "Ha! Here she is." Doby pulled the trigger. The gun roared. The bear roared. Flames sparkled round him. The gun's recoil kicked him end over end. Banged and battered, and rubbing his shoulder, he lay and blinked. If the safe end of the gun had done this to him, what might not its full cannon force have done to the bear? He was quite prepared for the scene which was before him as he crawled shakily to the window and ventured a look below. The bear lay stretched out on a huddle of rails and corn. "Of course she's dead." Doby breathed deep. "I know she must be. But--I guess I'll stay up here 'til pa comes. It won't be long before the folks who heard that gun will get here in a flock." He took another peep and another breath. "That is a big bear. Her pelt is almost prime now in the last of August." He got out his knife and examined its edge. A knife must be in perfect trim to skin a bear. Then an entirely new suspicion dismayed the boy. "The pelt of a community bear can't belong to any one person. Nearly a thousand people will each have a small share in it. Father George Rapp, the church and state, will direct Frederick Rapp, the business manager, to sell the pelt. Then we will all have an equal interest in the money after it is in the bank."