WAL,” said Dick, as soon as Frank had finished his story, “that war about the keerlessest trick I ever hearn tell on. Here, in the woods, it’s jest the same as it is in a city; let a boy have his own way, an’ he’ll make an eend of himself in a tarnal hurry. Don’t you know that that bar could have chawed you up in a minit?”
 
“Yes,” answered Frank, “I suppose she could; but I had to run the risk of that in order to get the cubs¹.”
 
“Yes, that’s another of your boy tricks,” continued Dick, knocking the ashes from his pipe, “an’ it ’minds me of some scrapes I had when I war a youngster. It war while my ole man war livin’. Him an’ me were onct huntin’ somewhar nigh the head-waters o’ the Colorado River. I war about seventeen year ole, an’ a purty good boy I war for my age, too. It tuk a smart, lively young Injun to take my measure on the ground, an’ I used to think that what I didn’t know about trappin’, shootin’, and fightin’ grizzly² bars, warn’t wuth knowin’. I was allers gettin’ into some scrape or another, an’ sometimes I used to get pawed up purty badly, too; but as long as I could crawl round I war all right.
 
“I ’member onct that I had been over to a little creek³ about two mile from the camp, to ’tend to some traps I had sot for muskrats⁴, an’ as I war comin’ home through the woods, I seed a young bar, jest about the size of them you brought home. He come out of the bushes, an’ looked at me a minit, an’ then jumped back agin. I thought he war a purty little feller, an’ made up my mind that I would ketch him an’ take him to camp with me. I had a kinder hankerin’ arter pets, jest like you, Frank, an’ I wanted to tame this young bar, an’ I thought me an’ him would have some tall fights when he growed up; so I put arter him, an’ finally ketched the little feller, an’ tuk him in my arms, an’ started for camp. He hollered an’ fit like the mischief⁵; but I hung on to him, an’ arter half an hour’s walk reached home. My ole man warn’t there; he had gone off to ’tend to his traps; but I didn’t keer, for I war used to bein’ alone in the woods. Arter feelin’ in all my pockets, I found a long strip o’ buckskin, an’ I thought I would tie the little feller to a saplin’ that stood close by the cabin; so I sot down on the ground an’ war tyin’ the string fast to his neck—he hollerin’ an’ fightin’ all the while—when, all to onct, I heerd a loud growlin’ and crashin’ in the bushes behind me. I looked up, an’ seed the ole bar a comin’. She had heered her baby squallin’, an’ was comin’ arter him. I jumped up an’ let the young bar fall, as though he had been a live coal. My gun war standin’ agin a tree, close by, but I knowed I wouldn’t have time to reach it, so I turned an’ begun to go up the saplin’. You better believe I climbed some, an’ I thought I war gettin’ along mighty⁷ fast; but I warn’t a minit too quick. I hadn’t hardly got out of reach afore the bar made a grab at me, an’ pulled off one of my moccasins. I war fairly treed; an’ there I had to stay, too, ’cause the ole bar kept a close watch on me; but the tree war too small for her to climb, so I knowed I war safe. ’Bout an hour afore dark I heered the ole man a comin’, an’ the bar left off watchin’ me, an’ begun to get ready for him. So, I hollered to the ole man, an’ he put a chunk⁸ o’ lead into her. As soon as I see that she war done for, I slid down the saplin’ as fast as I could to ketch the young bar; but the ole man, who knowed in a minit what I had been doin’, give him a clip side the head with the butt⁹ of his rifle, that knocked the daylights out of him; an’ then, bars an’ buffaler, didn’t he scold me for bein’ so keerless; but, law sakes, it didn’t do a bit o’ good, for, in about three days arterward, I war in a wusser scrape nor that.
 
“Arter ’tendin’ to my traps, as usual, I started out through the mountains, on a hunt. ’Bout noon I killed a big-horn, an’ while I war cookin’ my dinner, I happened to see, in a rocky place up the side o’ the mountain, a small openin’ ’bout large enough for a man to crawl into, an’ I knowed it war a sort of cave. I didn’t stop to think any more ’bout dinner jest then, but picked up my rifle an’ started up the mountain. I wanted to see what kind of a place the cave war. When I got purty nigh to the openin’ I seed a kind o’ path runnin’ up to it, an’ I knowed the cave must be the home of some wild animal. This made me prick¹⁰ up my ears, an’ be a little more keerful. I didn’t like the idee of havin’ a varmint jump down on me afore I knowed it. But I reached the mouth o’ the cave without seein’ any thing, and poked¹¹ my head in, keepin’ my gun ready to crack away at the first live thing I should set eyes on; but the cave war so dark that I couldn’t see into it two foot; but I heered something, an’ I scrambled¹² up into the openin’ an’ listened. It war a faint moanin’ kind of a noise—somethin’ like the squall of a young kitten, an’ I knowed in a minit what it war that made it; it war a young painter. Now, if I had knowed any thing, I would have climbed down out o’ that place as fast as my legs would let me. But, no; I tuk it into my head all to onct that I must have them young painters. I wanted one of ’em to play with; an’ without stoppin’ to think, I begun to crawl down into the cave, an’ along a narrer, crooked¹⁴ passage that must a been twenty yards long. One little feller kept up his cryin’, an’ it kept growin’ louder an’ louder, an’ I knowed that he warn’t a great way off. At last I come to a place where the cave seemed to widen into quite a large room, an’ after a few minits’ lookin’—or, I should say, feelin’—for the cave war as dark as a nigger’s pocket—I found the young painters—three of ’em—in a nice bed of leaves made up in one corner. I didn’t mind the hollerin’ they made when I tuk hold of ’em, but chucked ’em all into my cap, an’ started back. I had tuk good keer to ’member my bearin’s, an’ I knowed I should have no trouble in findin’ my way out; so I crawled along keerless like, as usual, chucklin’ over my good luck, an’ thinkin’ what nice pets I would make of the young painters, when all to onct I come within sight of the mouth o’ the cave. Bars and buffaler! I would have give all the beaver-skins I ever expected to be wuth, if I had been safe out o’ that cave. The ole painter was comin’ in. She had smelt¹⁵ my tracks, an’ I could see by the light that come in, in little streaks¹⁶ on each side of her, that every hair on her body war stickin’ toward her head. She meant mischief. Any greenhorn could a told that I war in somethin’ of a fix. I dropped the cubs, an’ as I did so, they all set up a yell. The ole lady couldn’t stand that, an’ givin’ a growl⁶ that made my blood run cold, she begun to get ready to spring at me. I used to think I war tall timber at rifle shootin’, but, although the painter war not thirty feet from me, I war ’most afraid to risk the shot. But I knowed I didn’t have much time to waste in sich thoughts, an’ drawin’ up my shootin’ iron, I blazed away, expectin’ to have the painter grab me the next minit. But when the smoke cleared away, I see the old lady stretched out, stone dead. I have been in tight places since then, in fights with varmints an’ wild Injuns, an’ many a time a single chunk o’ lead has saved my scalp; but that war the best shot I ever made. It war a thing that many a Rocky Mountain trapper wouldn’t keer to undertake. I like to hunt now as well as I ever did, an’ expect to be in a good many rough-an’-tumble fights with Injuns an’ grizzly bars, but I’d rather be excused from crawlin’ down into a dark hole like that agin. But arter I had got out o’ the cave, I didn’t stop to think o’ the danger I had been in; the cubs war mine, an’ that’s all I keered for.”
 
Here the trapper paused, and thrusting his hand into the pocket of his hunting-shirt, he drew forth¹⁷ a clasp-knife and a plug of tobacco, and after cutting off a generous “chaw,” as he called it, and stowing it away in his cheek, he continued:
 
“But ’bout the nighest I ever come to bein’ rubbed out, war while I war trappin’ on the Missouri River, with my chum, Bill Lawson—the poor fellow is gone now”—and here the trapper lowered his voice almost to a whisper, in reverence¹⁸ to the memory of his departed companion, and hastily drew his hand across his eyes—“an’ I am left alone. It’ll be lonesome on the prairy when I get back there, an’ when I visit the places where me an’ him used to camp an’ trap together, I shall miss the ole man. He war one of the best trappers I ever come acrost. He war g............