“Sure he hears them.  See him look back.  The son-of-a-gun!  I’ll bet he’s given us the bear-laugh more than once.”

“Ben, how far away is he?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s eight hundred yards,” declared Copple.  “A long shot.  Let’s wait.  He may work down closer.  But most likely he’ll run up-hill.”

“If he climbs he’ll go right to R.C.’s stand,” I said, gazing upward.

“Sure will.  There’s no other saddle.”

Then I decided that I would not shoot at him unless he started down.  My excitement was difficult to control.  I found it impossible to attend to my sensations, to think about what I was feeling.  But the moment was full of suspense.  The bear went into a small clump of spruces and stayed there a little while.  Tantalizing moments!  The hounds were hot upon his trail, still working to and fro in the oak thicket.  I judged scarcely a mile separated them from the bear.  Again he disappeared behind a little bush.  Remembering that five pairs of sharp eyes could see me from the points above I stood up and waved my red cap.  I waved it wildly as a man waves a red flag in moments of danger.  Afterward R.C. said he saw me plainly and understood my action.  Again the bear had showed, this time on an open slide, where he had halted.  He was looking across the canyon while I waved my cap.

“Ben, could he see us so far?” I asked.

“By Golly, I’ll bet he does see us.  You get to smokin’ him up.  An’ if you hit him don’t be nervous if he starts for us.  Cinnamons are bad customers.  Lay out five extra shells an’ make up your mind to kill him.”

I dropped upon one knee.  The bear started down, coming towards us over an open slide.  “Aim a little coarse an’ follow him,” said Copple.  I did so, and tightening all my muscles into a ball, holding my breath, I fired.  The bear gave a savage kick backwards.  He jerked back to bite at his haunch.  A growl, low, angry, vicious followed the echoes of my rifle.  Then it seemed he pointed his head toward us and began to run down the slope, looking our way all the time.

“By Golly!” yelled Copple.  “You stung him one an’ he’s comin’!...  Now you’ve got to shoot some.  He can roll down-hill an’ run up-hill like a jack rabbit.  Take your time—­wait for open shots—­an’ make sure!”

Copple’s advice brought home to me what could happen even with the advantage on my side.  Also it brought the cold tight prickle to my skin, the shudder that was not a thrill, the pressure of blood running too swiftly, I did not feel myself shake, but the rifle was unsteady.  I rested an elbow on my knee, yet still I had difficulty in keeping the sight on him.  I could get it on him, but could not keep it there.  Again he came out into the open, at the head of a yellow slide, that reached to a thicket below.  I must not hurry, yet I had to hurry.  After all he had not so far to come and most of the distance was under cover.  Through my mind flashed Haught’s story of a cinnamon that kept coming with ten bullets in him.