Before my feet were thoroughly toughened—that is to say, when I was still to some extent a tenderfoot—I joined, single-handed, in an undertaking which had more chances for failure than almost anything that can be imagined. It wasn't a trip to the moon, neither was it an attempt to wipe out the then powerful Sioux nation, but it was worse than either of these.

On Wagon-hound creek, one summer day, when our outfit was in camp for several hours, I strolled away from camp alone. It was early summer, probably July, and everything was green and fresh. Three miles from camp I came upon signs of life—the limb of a wild plum tree broken and hanging to the ground. The first impression was that there were prowling Indians in the neighborhood. The grass had also been trampled. The plums were only half ripe, and after gathering a few, I dropped over an embankment into the creek bottom, where I saw a large track in the soft silt; it was almost the shape of a human hand. There was a smaller one of the same character. These I followed, clutching a small "pop-gun" of the Derringer variety. After turning several curves of the creek I suddenly came upon my quarry—a big she-bear and a cub. The former snorted and made for me, and, sensibly pocketing my revolver, I lifted myself out of the creek bottom by grasping a convenient overhanging root of a tree; but almost simultaneously the she-bear was beside me.

Then began as pretty a race as you ever witnessed. It is a pity none saw it.

Fortunately I had only a few nights before been a silent listener to several camp-fire yarns of old-timers, one of which contained some advice about a man who finds himself in the predicament I now was in. Before me was a bald hill rising perhaps 200 or 300 feet, covered with sage and other brush. Up I flew. My feet were like wings. But Mrs. Bear, though heavy, was able to keep within ten feet of my heels until I reached the top. Then as I almost felt her warm breath I wheeled and ran down hill. This was tactics I had heard at the camp-fire and it saved me, too, for Mrs. Bear, being set up heavier behind than in front, and having long hind legs and short front ones, was obliged to come down slowly and sidewise at that.

Her cub had stayed at the bottom of the hill, whining, and as I reached him I gave him a kick in the jaw and there was some more zig-zagging, fast running and heart palpitation, although I felt somewhat relieved when, looking over my shoulder, I saw Mother Bear licking her cub's face.

Later on I sneaked into camp and tried to keep my secret; but I looked and acted queerly, and finally told the story. In ten minutes five of us were on the way to the site of my encounter, all mounted.

We soon discovered Mrs. Bear and her cub, and the boss insisted that I should have the first shot at her with a Winchester. I took good aim and fired, but saw the dirt fly a rod behind the old lady. It was a bad miss. Then "Sailor Jack" Walton sent a bullet into her heart and the rest of us lariated and captured the baby, which we took to Fort Laramie and gave to an army officer's wife.