outside.  Like Morgan Clark, he knew the bear would pass him head down and make for the open air without delay, and he wasn’t afraid.  When the bear got up with a growl at the appearance of the torch and started for the exit, Budd quietly stepped aside and gave him room to pass, but the Cinnamon developed individuality in an unexpected direction and made a grab for Budd’s right leg as he passed.  Budd threw his leg up to avoid the grab, lost his balance and fell flat on top of the bear.  Instinctively he caught hold of the thick fur on the bear’s hind quarters with both hands, still holding the torch in his right, but dropping his gun, and winding his legs about the bear’s body he rode out into the daylight before he hardly knew what had happened.

Mills was ready to shoot when the bear appeared, but seeing his partner riding the game, he was too much surprised to take the brief chance offered at the bear’s head, and in another instant it was too late.  To fire after the pair had passed was too dangerous, as he might hit the rider instead of the steed.  The Cinnamon, in his first panic, plunged wildly down the hill, trying to shake off his strange burden, and went so rapidly that Budd was afraid to let go.  But Budd’s principal fear was that the bear would recover his presence of mind and turn upon him, and his game was to keep the beast on the jump as long as he could, trusting to chance for a way out of the scrape.

The torch, made of rags soaked in oil, was still blazing in his right hand.  Taking a firmer grip with his legs and a good hold just above the tail with his teeth, he applied the torch to the bear’s rump.  This application and the hair-raising yells of Mills, who was plunging along madly in the wake, caused an astonishing burst of speed, and the Cinnamon thundered through the brush like a runaway locomotive on a down grade, with such lurches and rolls and plunges that Budd dropped his torch and hung on, tooth and nail, for dear life.

The unfeeling Mills was taking a frivolous view of the case by this time, and as he strode rapidly along behind, losing ground at every jump, however, he encouraged Budd and the bear alternately with flippant remarks:  “Stick to him, Budd!  Whoaouw!  Go it bar!” “You’re the boss bar-buster, old man.  Can’t buck you off!” “Whoopee Hellitylarrup!” “Who’s bossing that job, Budd; you or the bar?” “Say Budd, goin’ ter leave me here?  Give a feller a ride, won’t ye?” “Hi-yi; that’s a bully saddle bar!”

[Illustration:  A Bully Saddle Bear.]

But Budd was waiting for a chance to dismount, and as the bear rose to leap a big log in his path, Budd let go all holds and slid head first to the ground.  He bumped his forehead and skinned his nose on a rock.  His legs and back were scratched and torn by the brush, his clothes were in tatters, and he was almost seasick from the lurching motion of his steed.

Mills came up roaring with laughter.  He thought it was the funniest thing he ever had seen in his life.  But Budd was not a man of much humor and he failed to appreciate the ridiculous features of the adventure.  He got up slowly, ruefully brushed away the blood and dirt from his face, and solemnly and methodically gave Joe Mills the most serious and matter-of-fact licking that a man ever got in this world.