One of the party was Ned Foster, who never stood to lose on any proposition and never was known to play any game on the square.  Being lame, Foster did not have any ambition to meet the big bear, but contented himself with shooting birds for the pot and helping the camp cook.  One morning, after all the mighty hunters had gone out on their quest, Foster picked up his shot-gun, jocularly remarked that he guessed he would fetch in a bear, and limped away toward a brushy ridge.  Presently the cook heard a shot, followed by yells of alarm, and peering from the tent he saw Foster coming down the slope on a gallop, followed by a monstrous bear.  The cook seized a rifle, tried to load it with shot cartridges, and realizing that his agitation made him hopelessly futile, abandoned the attempt to help Foster and scrambled up a tree.  From his perch the cook watched with solicitude the progress of Foster and the bear, shouting to Foster excited advice to increase his pace and informing him of gains made by the pursuer.

“Run, Ned!  Good Lord, why don’t you let yourself out?” yelled the frantic cook, as Foster lost a length on the turn into the home-stretch.  “You’re not running a lick on God’s green earth.  The bear’s gaining on you every jump, Ned.  Turn yourself loose!  Ned, you’ve just got to run to beat that bear!”

Ned went by the tree in a hitch-and-kick gallop, and as he passed he gasped in scornful tones:  “You yapping coyote, do you think I’m selling this race!” Perhaps he wasn’t, but it looked that way to the man up the tree.

That was the end of the tale as it was told by the Comstockers, who refused to spoil a good climax by gratifying mere idle curiosity about the finish of the race.  But Foster was not eaten up by Old Brin—­of course his pursuer was the clubfooted bear—­and something extraordinary must have happened to save him.  An indefinite prolongation of the situation is unthinkable.  Wherefore things happened in this wise:  Foster’s hat fell off, and while the bear was investigating it the man gained a few yards and time enough to climb a stout sapling, growing upon the brink of a cleft in the country rock about a dozen feet wide and twice as deep.  The tree was as thick as a man’s leg at the base and very tall.  Foster climbed well out of reach of the bear, and, perched in a crotch twenty feet above the ground, he felt safe.  Old Brin sat down at the foot of the tree, and with head cocked sidewise thoughtfully eyed the man who had affronted him with a charge of small shot.  Presently he arose and with his paws grasped the tree ten or twelve feet from the ground, and Foster laughed derisively at the notion of that clumsy beast trying to climb.  But Brin had no notion of climbing.  Holding his grip, he backed away, and as the tree bent toward him he took a fresh hold higher up, and so, hand over hand, pulled the top of it downward and prepared to pluck Foster or shake him down like a ripe persimmon.