It was Fred Munson's turn to be astonished, and he asked, in his amazed,
wondering way:

"Who, then, fired the shot that killed him? I didn't."

"I thought ye did the same, for it was not mesilf."

The lad was more puzzled than ever. He saw that Mickey was in earnest, and
was telling him the truth, and each, in fact, understood that _he_ had
been under a misapprehension as to who had slain the grizzly bear.

"The beast was right on me," continued Fred, "and I didn't think there was
any chance for me, when I heard the crack of a rifle from the bushes, and,
looking back, saw that the bear was down on the ground, making his last
kick."

Mickey let the meat scorch, while he stopped to scratch his head, as was
his custom when he was in a mental fog.

"Begorrah, but that is queer, as me mither used to obsarve when she found
she had not been desaved by belaving what we childer told her. There was
somebody who was kind enough to knock over the grizzly at the most
convanient season for ye, and then he doesn't choose to send over his card
wid his post-office address on."

"Who do you think it was, Mickey?"

"It must have been some red spalpeen that took pity on ye. Who knows but
it was Lone Wolf himself?"