The bear hesitated a second, as though undecided whom to follow, and then put after Bert.

But it was a very different race this time from that of an hour before.  Then the odds had been against the fugitive; now they were with him.  The rage of the bear was greater, but his speed and strength were failing.  Bert easily increased his distance, and as he ran his quick mind formed a plan of action.

Running in a circle, he gradually drew his pursuer around to the tree where he had sought refuge.  He had figured on grabbing one of the guns and shinning up to the friendly crotch, there to despatch his foe at leisure.  But as he rose with the rifle in his hand he saw that there was no time for this.

Dropping on one knee he took careful aim, and as the grizzly rose on its hind legs to grasp him, fired point blank at the spot just below the fore leg that marked the heart.  Then he jumped aside.

The bear spun around once, toppled and fell with a tremendous crash on the spot where Bert had been a moment before.

Once more Bert raised his rifle, looking narrowly for any sign of life.  But the last bullet had done the work.  A convulsive shudder ran through the bear’s enormous length.  Then he stiffened out and a glaze crept over the wicked eyes.  He had fought his last fight.

And as Bert looked down at him, his relief and exultation were tempered by a feeling of respect for the brute’s courage.  Never for a moment had he shown the white feather.  He had fought gallantly and gone down fighting.

Tom and Dick, who had now rejoined him, shared his feeling.

“Nothing ‘yellow’ about that old rascal but his hide,” commented Dick.

“A fighter from Fightersville,” added Tom.

When their jubilation had somewhat subsided, they measured their quarry.

“Ten feet four inches, from the tip of the nose to the root of the tail,” announced Tom.  “Gee, but he’s a monster.”

“The daddy of them all,” said Dick.

“He must weigh over half a ton,” judged Bert.

They looked with a shudder at the terrible claws and fangs.

“They say that a grizzly has forty-two teeth,” remarked Tom, “but I thought he had forty-two thousand when he was bearing down upon us with his mouth open.”

“Well, now the question is what are we going to do with him,” said Dick.

“That’s a pleasant way to put it,” laughed Bert.  “A little while ago the question was what was he going to do with us.”

“I don’t know,” he mused, “what we can do.  We can’t skin him, because we haven’t the proper knives, and then, too, it takes an expert to get that hide off without spoiling it.  On the other hand, we can’t leave it here and expect to find it in the morning.  The other animals will feast on the carcass, and the skin won’t be any good when they’ve got through tearing it.  If it were a deer we could hang it up out of reach.  But we couldn’t even move this mountain, let alone lift it.”