Somebody answered, and next somebody began to
shoot. How I climbed and crawled and scuffled to get back to my horse!
Stockings answered to the spirit of the occasion. Like a deer he ran
around the rough rim, and I had to perform with the agility of a
contortionist to avoid dead snags of trees and green branches. When I
got to the point from which I had calculated George had done his
shooting I found no one. My yells brought no answers. But I heard a
horse cracking the rocks behind me. Then up from far below rang the
sharp spangs of rifles in quick action. Nielsen and Edd were shooting. I
counted seven shots. How the echoes rang from wall to wall, to die
hollow and faint in the deep canyons!
I galloped ahead to the next point, finding only the tracks of R.C.'s
boots. Everywhere I peered for the bear I had sighted, and at intervals
I yelled. For all the answer I got I might as well have been alone on
the windy rim of the world. My voice seemed lost in immensity. Then I
rode westward, then back eastward, and to and fro until both Stockings
and I were weary. At last I gave up, and took a good, long rest under a
pine on the rim. Not a shot, not a yell, not a sound but wind and the
squall of a jay disrupted the peace of that hour. I profited by this
lull in the excitement by more means than one, particularly in sight of
a flock of wild pigeons.
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