Soon, however, we got into the thickets again, low live-oak and manzanita, which kind of brush my horse detested.  I did not blame him for that.  As the hounds began to work down my keen excitement increased.  If they had jumped the bear and were chasing him down I might run upon him any moment.  This both appealed to me and caused me apprehension.  Suppose he were a bad cinnamon or a grizzly?  What would become of me on that horse?  I decided that I had better carry my rifle in my hand, so in case of a sudden appearance of the bear and I was thrown or had a fall off, then I would be prepared.  So forthwith I drew the rifle out of the scabbard, remembering as I did so that Haught had cautioned me, in case of close quarters with a bear and the need of quick shooting, to jerk the lever down hard.  If my horse had cut up abominably before he now began to cover himself with a glory of abominableness.  I had to jam him through the thickets.  He was an uncomfortable horse to ride under the best circumstances; here he was as bad as riding a picket-fence.  When he got his head, which was often, he carried me into thickets of manzanita that we could not penetrate, and had to turn back.  I found that I was working high up the slope, and bad luck as I was having with my horse, I still appeared to keep fairly close to the hounds.

When we topped a ridge of this slope the wind struck us strong in the face.  The baying of the hounds rang clear and full and fierce.  My horse stood straight up.  Then he plunged back and bolted down the slope.  His mouth was like iron.  I could neither hold nor turn him.  However perilous this ride I had to admit that at last my horse was running beautifully.  In fact he was running away!  He had gotten a hot scent of that bear.  He hurdled rocks, leaped washes, slid down banks, plunged over places that made my hair stand up stiff, and worst of all he did not try to avoid brush or trees or cactus.  Manzanita he tore right through, leaving my coat in strips decorating our wake.  I had to hold on, to lie flat, to dodge and twist, and all the time watch for a place where I might fall off in safety.  But I did not get a chance to fall off.  A loud clamoring burst from the hounds apparently close behind drove my horse frantic.  Before he had only run—­now he flew!  He left me hanging in the thick branches of a juniper, from which I dropped blind and breathless and stunned.  Disengaging myself from the broken and hanging branches I staggered aside, rifle in hand, trying to recover breath and wits.

Then, in that nerveless and shaken condition, I heard the breaking of twigs and thud of soft steps right above me.  Peering up with my half-blinded eyes I saw a huge red furry animal coming, half obscured by brush.  It waved aside from his broad back.  A shock ran over me—­a bursting gush of hot blood that turned to ice as it rushed.  “Big cinnamon bear!” I whispered, hoarsely.