The man up the tree was puzzled to account for such remarkable vitality and perseverance, but he braced himself for the combat, and at the proper moment chopped viciously at the bear’s forearm and felt the blade sink into the bone.  This time he got in three good hard lunges under the arm, and when the bear fell “ker-flop” he had no doubt that the fight was ended.

But there never was another such bear as that one.  It wasn’t a minute before the whole thing had to be done over again, and the man up the tree varied the performance by reaching around and giving the bear a whack in the neck that nearly cut his head off.  This sort of thing was repeated at intervals for two or three hours, but at last the attacks ceased, and all was still at the foot of the tree.  The man was weary, and to tell the truth a little rattled.  He did not deem it wise to come off his perch and take any chance of trouble on the ground, so he strapped himself to the branch with his belt and fell asleep.

It was gray dawn when he awoke.  He rubbed his eyes and looked down at the ground.  Then he rubbed them again and pinched himself and glanced around at the rocks and trees to make sure that he was not in a trance.  He said to himself, being a reader of the poets, “Can such things be, or is visions about?”

It was no dream and the man up the canyon said it was no lie.  Lying about the foot of the sycamore were nine dead bears, weltering in their gore.

Which explains why the Don and the Colonel and the rest of the expedition of extermination returned forthwith to Los Angeles without having seen a bear.  There are no more bears.  The man up the canyon killed them all years ago.

***End of the project gutenberg EBOOK bears I have met—­and others***

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