Indeed these last facts have been religiously kept secret until
chronicled here.
Shortly afterward, as I was making a lame and slow headway toward
Horton Thicket, where I hoped to find a trail out, I heard Edd
yelling, and I answered. Presently we met. He was leading my horse,
and some of the hounds, notably Old Tom and Dan, were with him.
"Where's the bear?" I asked.
"He got away down in the breaks," replied Edd. "George is tryin' to
call the hounds back. What happened to you? I heard you shoot."
"My horse didn't care much for me or the brush," I replied. "He left
me--rather suddenly. And--I took a shot at what I thought was a bear."
"I seen him once," said Edd, with eyes flashing. "Was just goin' to
smoke him up when he jumped out of sight."
My mortification and apprehension were somewhat mitigated when I
observed that Edd was dirty, ragged, and almost as much disheveled as
I was. I had feared he would see in my appearance certain unmistakable
evidences that I had made a tenderfoot blunder and then run for
my life. But Edd took my loss of hat, and torn coat, and general
bedraggled state as a matter of course. Indeed I somehow felt a little
pride at his acceptance of me there in the flesh.
We rode around the end of this slope, gradually working down into
Horton Thicket, where a wild confusion of dense timber engaged my
sight.
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