Knowing that one stroke of the bear’s paw would be certain death to his poor dog, Dick leaped from his perch, and with one bound reached the ground at the same moment with the struggling animals, and close beside them, and, before they had ceased rolling, he placed the muzzle of his rifle into the bear’s ear, and blew out its brains.

Crusoe, strange to say, escaped with only one scratch on the side.  It was a deep one, but not dangerous, and gave him but little pain at the time, although it caused him many a smart for some weeks after.

Thus happily ended Dick’s first encounter with a grizzly bear; and although, in the course of his wild life, he shot many specimens of “Caleb,” he used to say that “he an’ pup were never so near goin’ under as on the day he dropped that bar!”

Having refreshed himself with a long draught from a neighbouring rivulet, and washed Crusoe’s wound, Dick skinned the bear on the spot.  “We chawed him up that time, didn’t we, pup?” said Dick, with a smile of satisfaction, as he surveyed his prize.

Crusoe looked up and assented to this.

“Gave us a hard tussle, though; very nigh sent us both under, didn’t he, pup?”

Crusoe agreed entirely, and, as if the remark reminded him of honourable scars, he licked his wound.

“Ah, pup!” cried Dick, sympathetically, “does’t hurt ye, eh, poor dog?”

Hurt him? such a question!  No, he should think not; better ask if that leap from the precipice hurt yourself.

So Crusoe might have said, but he didn’t; he took no notice of the remark whatever.

“We’ll cut him up now, pup,” continued Dick.  “The skin’ll make a splendid bed for you an’ me o’ nights, and a saddle for Charlie.”

Dick cut out all the claws of the bear by the roots, and spent the remainder of that night in cleaning them and stringing them on a strip of leather to form a necklace.  Independently of the value of these enormous claws (the largest as long as a man’s middle finger) as an evidence of prowess, they formed a remarkably graceful collar, which Dick wore round his neck ever after with as much pride as if he had been a Pawnee warrior.

When it was finished he held it out at arm’s-length, and said, “Crusoe, my pup, ain’t ye proud of it?  I’ll tell ye what it is, pup, the next time you an’ I floor Caleb, I’ll put the claws round your neck, an’ make ye wear em ever arter, so I will.”

The dog did not seem quite to appreciate this piece of prospective good fortune.  Vanity had no place in his honest breast, and, sooth to say, it had not a large place in that of his master either, as we may well grant when we consider that this first display of it was on the occasion of his hunter’s soul having at last realized its brightest day-dream.

Dick’s dangers and triumphs seemed to accumulate on him rather thickly at this place, for on the very next day he had a narrow escape of being killed by a deer.  The way of it was this.