THE sound was like that of a score of bison charging through the undergrowth. The affrighted lads glanced around and saw the grizzly crashing down upon them. Possibly he had awakened to the fancy that they were enemies, and one of them had sought to do him harm. At any rate, here he was!

George and Victor instinctively did what any two persons with loaded guns in their hands will do when assailed by a furious wild beast. They brought their weapons to a level and blazed away straight into his face, but they might as well have sent their bullets against a solid rock for all the good it accomplished in the way of checking the rush of the monster, who emitted his hog-like grunts and swept down upon them like a whirlwind.

Without any thought of the wisdom of what they were doing, the brothers separated, their line of flight being almost at right angles from the beginning. Since it was impossible for the beast to pursue both at the same time, he had to select his victim. His choice fell upon Victor, but it is not to be supposed that he recognized him as the original offender in this business.

The gait of a grizzly bear, or for that matter of any of his species, is awkward when he is running at full speed. He has a grotesque way of doubling and humping his body, which seems fatal to high speed. Nevertheless, he can get forward at an astonishing rate, faster than a man can run at his best. If it should ever fall to your lot to meet a grizzly in his western haunts, don’t fancy you can escape him simply by running. Keep out of his way from the first.

George Shelton ran and tumbled and scrambled over the rough ground for a considerable distance before he glanced behind him. Then he discovered he was not pursued. Panting from his exertions, he halted and began reloading his gun with a haste which made the work doubly as long as it would have lasted on any other occasion. As soon as his weapon was ready he hurried back to the help of his brother, who was having a perilous time indeed. As he ran he called as loud as he could for Deerfoot and Mul-tal-la, for the crisis could not have been more serious.

Less than fifty feet separated Victor Shelton from the grizzly when the race for life opened. For a little way the ground was favorable, and the lad ran fully as fast as when fleeing from the wounded antelope. A glance over his shoulder showed the vast hulk doubling and lumbering along and gaining rapidly. In a straightaway race the fugitive was sure to be overtaken within a few minutes.

Something must be done without an instant’s delay. There was no time to reload his old-fashioned gun, nor could he descry any refuge. A sapling appeared a little to his right, but he dared not resort to that. He believed the bear would jerk it up by the roots to get at him, and he was probably right in his supposition. So he kept on.

The situation was so critical that Victor Shelton did a desperate thing. Throwing away the rifle which impeded his flight, he turned to the left and headed, still on a dead run, for the edge of a cliff. Of the depth of the ravine beyond he had not the faintest idea. It might be a few feet or it might be a hundred. He had no time to find out. Over he must go, and without checking his flight in the least, he dashed to the edge and made the leap.

Providentially the distance was barely a score of feet, and instead of alighting upon a rock almost in his line of flight, he landed on the comparatively soft earth. He was severely shaken, but in his fright he heeded it not. He fell forward on his hands and knees, scrambled up instantly, and was off again. He had dropped into a gorge only a few yards in width, which wound indefinitely to the right and left. There was no way of knowing the better line of flight, and he turned to the right.

He had gone only a few paces when he looked back to see what had become of the grizzly. He had stopped on the margin of the bluff and was looking down at the terrified youngster, who was striving so frantically to get beyond his reach. For a moment Victor believed the brute was about to follow him; but instead of doing that he lumbered, growling and grunting, along the side of the ravine, easily keeping pace with the fugitive, despite the fact that the surface was more broken than in the bottom of the gorge.

Still, so long as the relative positions of the grizzly and fugitive remained the same, no harm could come to the latter. But a change speedily took place.

Victor had not gone far when to his dismay he noticed that the ground over which he was running began to slope upward. If this continued he must soon rise to the level of the bear, who acted as if he saw how the situation favored him. The plum which for the moment was out of his reach must soon pass into his maws.

The fugitive slackened his speed, wondering what he could do. He glanced at the opposite side of the ravine in search of a way of climbing out and thus interposing the chasm between him and his enemy. But the wall was perpendicular and comparatively smooth. If he kept on he would soon be brought face to face with the beast. He must turn back, with no certainty that the same hopeless condition would not confront him in that direction.

Just then a shout fell upon his ear. George Shelton appeared on the edge of the cliff within a hundred feet of the bear. A flash and report followed. He had fired at their terrible enemy and the bullet could not miss; but the grizzly seemed as unaware of it as of the former pin pricks. Giving no heed to the shouts, the report and the slight sting, he saw only the lad below him, upon whom he had centered his wrath.

Victor had halted, glanced up, and was in the act of turning back over his own trail when the brute took advantage of the decreased depth of the gorge, leaped the short distance necessary to land him on the bottom, not more than eight or ten feet below, and tumbling, rolling, grunting, scrambling and flinging the pebbles and dirt in every direction, renewed his direct pursuit of the fugitive, with less distance than before separating them.

All that Victor could do was to run, and if ever a youngster did that it was he. Unquestionably he must have exceeded the pace he showed when fleeing from the wounded antelope. And yet it did not equal that of the grizzly, who lumbered forward like a locomotive running down a panic-stricken dog between the rails.

Suddenly another form dropped lightly into the gorge, landing on his feet a few paces behind the fugitive, who, as he sped past, recognized Deerfoot the Shawanoe. Neither spoke, for it was not necessary. The lad did not slacken his speed, which was at the highest tension, and the lithe young Indian, standing motionless, raised his rifle and fired at the grizzly when the space separating the two was barely a rod.

Deerfoot aimed at one of the eyes. He must have brought down the terrific brute had not the latter at the very instant of the discharge started to rise on his hind legs, as his species do when about to seize their victim. Despite the brief distance separating the two there was just enough deflection in the aim to save the eye. The bullet struck below that organ and did no more harm than the missiles that had preceded it.

But Deerfoot had interposed between his friend and the grizzly, and the fight was now between him and the furious Goliath. Never was a more thrilling sight witnessed than that upon which George Shelton gazed from the top of the ravine, and which his brother viewed from a safe point within the gorge.

The Shawanoe saw on the instant the cause of his failure to kill the bear. His gun was of no further use for the time, and, like Victor Shelton, he flung it aside. He did not doubt that he could outrun the grizzly in a fair race, and he would have fled had he thought Victor was beyond reach, but there was no saying whether the gorge was not in the nature of a blind alley or cage, from which the lad could not escape. To save him the Shawanoe held his ground.

At the instant of flinging aside his rifle Deerfoot drew his knife from his girdle and gripped it in his good left hand. The grizzly, as I have said, had risen on his haunches and reached out for his victim, but the space was too great. He sagged down on all fours, plunged a few paces forward, and reared again.

As he went up he must have caught the flash of flying black hair, of a fringed hunting shirt and a gleaming face. And as he saw all this like a phantom of his dull brain, he awoke to the fact that a dagger was driven with merciless force into his chest and withdrawn again, both movements being of lightning-like quickness.

He had seen that face almost against his nose, and the ponderous fore legs circled outward and swept together in a clasp that seemingly would have crushed a stone statue had it been caught by those mighty legs. But Deerfoot ducked with inimitable agility and leaped back a dozen feet.

If the grizzly had not felt the bullets he now felt that knife thrust, and all the tempestuous fury of his nature was roused. He dropped on all fours, charged forward, rose again and grasped at the audacious individual that had seriously wounded him and dared still to keep his place an arm’s length away.

Precisely that which took place before occurred again. As the shaggy monster reared, his head towering far above that of the Shawanoe, the latter bounded forward past the guard, as it may be called, and drove his dripping knife with fierce power into the massive hulk, dropping and slipping beyond grasp before the brute could touch him.

Deerfoot knew where to thrust to reach the seat of life, but the enormous size of the grizzly actually seemed to hold it beyond reach of an ordinary weapon, for after several blows the bear showed no evidence of harm beyond that caused by the crimson staining of his great hairy coat. Apparently he was as strong as ever.

George and Victor Shelton held their breath at times when viewing this remarkable combat. They knew that if the bear once seized the Shawanoe he would not live a minute. Repeatedly it looked as if the youth had been caught. Once when the huge fore leg showed outside the shoulder of Deerfoot and seemingly against it, and his head almost touched the snout of the bear, both lads uttered a wail of agony, and George, from his place at the top of the gorge, called to his brother below:

“Poor Deerfoot! He is gone!”

“So he is!” chuckled Victor; “gone from the claws of the grizzly.”

Just then Mul-tal-la hurried forward to the side of George Shelton. The youth suspected the truth. The Blackfoot, although ordinarily a brave man, had no wish for a close acquaintance with so overwhelming a specimen of “Old Ephraim,” as he is now often called. He knew too well the tremendous prowess of the monarch of the western solitudes.

But Mul-tal-la could not stay in the back ground when his friend was in danger. Standing beside George Shelton, it took but a glance for him to understand the situation. Deerfoot was engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with the most formidable grizzly bear upon which the Blackfoot had ever looked or of which he had ever heard.

A minute told the Blackfoot further that the youth was certain to win, for, while he was continually thrusting and wounding his antagonist, who must soon succumb, the latter had not harmed a hair of the other’s head.

To such a struggle there could be but one issue, provided no accident intervened. But a mishap is always possible in the case of the bravest and most skilful combatant. Deerfoot might slip at a critical moment and be caught. Amazing as was his prowess, he was not infallible, and death was likely to seize him at any moment.

The action of the Blackfoot, therefore, was to be commended, when he knelt on one knee and aimed with the utmost care at the brute. While he and the youth were interlocked there was danger of injuring Deerfoot. Mul-tal-la, therefore, waited until a brief space separated the two and just before the Shawanoe made another bound forward.

Mul-tal-la held his aim for several minutes, for he was resolved not to make any mistake. He aimed just behind the ear, and when he pressed the trigger the little sphere of lead bored its way into a vital part, and then it was all over.

Deerfoot had struck again and leaped back when he heard the report of the rifle, saw the outreaching paws droop, the snout dip, and the mountainous mass sag downwards and sideways, tumble over, and that was the end.

“Mul-tal-la only hastened the death of the bear”, remarked the Blackfoot when he and the boys clambered down into the ravine and stood beside the victor; “my brother had done the work, and the bear could not have lasted much longer.”

“Perhaps my brother is right,” replied the Shawanoe. Then he looked sternly at the lads and added:

“If my brothers do not heed the words of Deerfoot he will not be their friend.”

The boys succeeded after much talking in putting matters in such a light that Deerfoot finally agreed to soften his rebuke, though they felt it hardly the less keenly.