He said the Monarch stood up and took the bombardment as nonchalantly as he would a fusilade from a pea-shooter, appearing to be only amazed at the cheek of the man and the buckskin horse.  When Jeff’s rifle was empty, he turned and spurred his horse back down the trail, followed by the bear, who kept up the chase about a mile and then disappeared in the brush.  Jeff’s theory was that the heavy mass of hair on the bear’s breast effectually protected him from the bullets, which do not have great penetrating power when fired from a forty-four Winchester with a charge of only forty grains of powder.

About a week after that adventure the Monarch called at Martin’s summer camp on Gleason Mountain to get some beef.  It was about midnight when he climbed into the corral.  The only beef in the corral that night was on the bones of a tough and ugly bull, and as soon as the Monarch dropped to the ground from the fence he got into trouble.  The bull was spoiling for a fight, and he charged on the bear without waiting for the call of time, taking him amidships and bowling him over in the mud before the Monarch knew what was coming.  Jeff was aroused by the disturbance and went over to see what was up.  He saw two huge bulks charging around in the corral, banging up against the sides and making the dirt fly in all directions, and he heard the bellowing of the old bull and the hoarse growls of the bear.  They were having a strenuous time all by themselves, and Jeff decided to let them fight it out in their own way without any interference.  Returning to the cabin, he said to his son Jesse and an Indian who worked for him:  “It’s that d——­d old Grizzly having a racket with the old bull, but I reckon the bull is old enough to take care of himself.  We’ll bar the door and let ’em go it.”

So they barred the door and listened to the sounds of the battle.  In less than a quarter of an hour the Monarch got a beautiful licking and concluded that he didn’t want any beef for supper.  The bull was tough, anyway, and he would rather make a light meal off the grub in the cabin.  Jeff heard a great scratching and scrambling as the Monarch began climbing out of the corral.  Then there was a roar and a rush, a heavy thud as the bull’s forehead struck the Monarch’s rear elevation, a growl of pain and surprise and the fall of half a ton or more of bear meat on the ground outside of the corral.

“I reckon the old bull has made that cuss lose his appetite,” chuckled Jeff.  “He won’t come fooling around this ranch any more.  I’ll bet he’s the sorest bear that ever wore hair.”

The three men in the cabin were laughing and enjoying the triumph of the bull when “whang!” came something against the door, and they all jumped for their guns.  It was the discomfited but not discouraged Monarch breaking into the cabin in search of his supper.  With two or three blows of his ponderous paw the grizzly smashed the door to splinters, but as he poked his head in he met a volley from two rifles and a shotgun.  He looked at Jeff reproachfully for the inhospitable reception, turned about and went away, more in sorrow than in anger.