He came again and again to that pig-pen. He found his food there till
his wound was healed. Once he met with a spring-gun, but it was set
too high. Six feet up, the sheep-folk judged, would be just about
right for such a Bear; the charge went over his head, and so he passed
unharmed--a clear proof that he was a devil. He was learning this: the
human smell in any form is a smell of danger. He quit the little
valley of the shack, wandering downward toward the plains. He passed a
house one night, and walking up, he discovered a hollow thing with a
delicious smell. It was a ten-gallon keg that had been used for sugar,
some of which was still in the bottom, and thrusting in his huge head,
the keg-rim, bristling with nails, stuck to him. He raged about,
clawing at it wildly and roaring in it until a charge of shot from the
upper windows stirred him to such effort that the keg was smashed to
bits and his blinders removed.

Thus the idea was slowly borne in on him: going near a man-den is sure
to bring trouble. Thenceforth he sought his prey in the woods or on
the plains. He one day found the man scent that enraged him the day he
lost his "Silver-brown." He took the trail, and passing in silence
incredible for such a bulk, he threaded chaparral and manzanita on and
down through tule-beds till the level plain was reached. The scent led
on, was fresher now. Far out were white specks--moving things. They
meant nothing to Gringo, for he had never smelt wild geese, had
scarcely seen them, but the trail he was hunting went on. He swiftly
followed till the tule ahead rustled gently, and the scent was _body
scent_. A ponderous rush, a single blow--and the goose-hunt was
ended ere well begun, and Faco's sheep became the brother's heritage.