A., and my friend Captain Bates, with some men
of the 2nd and 3rd Cavalry, were scouting in Wyoming, near the Freezeout
Mountains. One morning they roused a bear in the open prairie and
followed it at full speed as it ran towards a small creek. At one spot
in the creek beavers had built a dam, and as usual in such places there
was a thick growth of bushes and willow saplings. Just as the bear
reached the edge of this little jungle it was struck by several balls,
both of its forelegs being broken. Nevertheless, it managed to shove
itself forward on its hind-legs, and partly rolled, partly pushed itself
into the thicket, the bushes though low being so dense that its body was
at once completely hidden. The thicket was a mere patch of brush, not
twenty yards across in any direction. The leading troopers reached the
edge almost as the bear tumbled in. One of them, a tall and powerful
man named Miller, instantly dismounted and prepared to force his way in
among the dwarfed willows, which were but breast-high.
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