It must be that when a wild beast comes across a boy, he concludes that even though he carries a gun there is nothing to be feared from him. The grizzly bear had shown a sublime indifference to Ned's capacity, and his life had paid the forfeit. And now, although the mountain wolf must have seen him raise that rifle and point it as straight as the finger of fate directly at him, he paid no attention to it whatever; but there he stood, snarling and growling, and on the very point of leaping. Suddenly there was a short, sharp crack, and it was all over with the wolf. He must have gathered himself for a leap at that very moment; for the bullet that bored his brittle skull through and through did not prevent an outward bound. A faint yelp and the creature bounded full a dozen feet directly out from the rock, and, owing to some curious quirp of the muscles, turned a complete somerset, and would have landed directly upon the head of Ned if he hadn't sprung to one side as the carcass fell to the ground. "That settles your case," remarked the boy, with the indifference of an old hunter. "Now it's time to load up again." This done he settled himself to watch and listen and play the part of his own sentinel for the rest of the night. A faint moaning of the night-wind was all that reached his ears. Once he fancied he heard the report of a gun far away in the distance, but it was so faint that he might have been mistaken. Then a cry, somewhat resembling that made by a panther, was borne on the wind, but that, too, seemed to come from the mountains that were miles away to the westward. No sound indicated the presence of any further danger close at hand. Everything was quiet, and seemingly at rest. CHAPTER XXXI. SLEEP. The sentinel on his rounds, the watchman upon his beat, or the sailor pacing the deck of his vessel in mid-ocean, keeps his senses awake by the constant motion of his body. To sit down to rest for a few minutes only is fatal. Sleep has the power of stealing over the faculties, and wrapping them up in its embrace so insidiously, that no watchfulness can guard against it unless artificial means, such as walking, are resorted to. When Ned Chadmund resumed an easy position in front of his own camp fire, the inevitable result followed. He resolved to keep his ears and eyes open, and almost immediately closed them. A few minutes passed and then his head began to nod. Several times he narrowly escaped tumbling over, and, finally rousing, he vigorously rubbed his eyes, yawned, and arose to his feet. "My gracious! this won't do," he exclaimed, with a shuddering sense of the danger he was running. "A bear might steal right up to me and eat me up before I could help myself. If I'm going to play sentinel, I must do it like a man."