"Run, Ned! Good Lord, why don't you let yourself out?" yelled the
frantic cook, as Foster lost a length on the turn into the
home-stretch. "You're not running a lick on God's green earth. The
bear's gaining on you every jump, Ned. Turn yourself loose! Ned,
you've just got to run to beat that bear!"

Ned went by the tree in a hitch-and-kick gallop, and as he passed he
gasped in scornful tones: "You yapping coyote, do you think I'm selling
this race!" Perhaps he wasn't, but it looked that way to the man up
the tree.

That was the end of the tale as it was told by the Comstockers, who
refused to spoil a good climax by gratifying mere idle curiosity about
the finish of the race. But Foster was not eaten up by Old Brin--of
course his pursuer was the clubfooted bear--and something extraordinary
must have happened to save him. An indefinite prolongation of the
situation is unthinkable. Wherefore things happened in this wise:
Foster's hat fell off, and while the bear was investigating it the man
gained a few yards and time enough to climb a stout sapling, growing
upon the brink of a cleft in the country rock about a dozen feet wide
and twice as deep. The tree was as thick as a man's leg at the base
and very tall. Foster climbed well out of reach of the bear, and,
perched in a crotch twenty feet above the ground, he felt safe. Old
Brin sat down at the foot of the tree, and with head cocked sidewise
thoughtfully eyed the man who had affronted him with a charge of small
shot. Presently he arose and with his paws grasped the tree ten or
twelve feet from the ground, and Foster laughed derisively at the
notion of that clumsy beast trying to climb. But Brin had no notion of
climbing. Holding his grip, he backed away, and as the tree bent