hard to aim. I waited until he came to a fallen tree, raking him
as he topped it with a ball, which entered his chest and went
through the cavity of his body, but he neither swerved nor
flinched, and at the moment I did not know that I had struck him.
He came steadily on, and in another second was almost upon me. I
fired for his forehead, but my bullet went low, entering his open
mouth, smashing his lower jaw and going into the neck. I leaped to
one side almost as I pulled the trigger; and through the hanging
smoke the first thing I saw was his paw as he made a vicious side
blow at me. The rush of his charge carried him past. As he struck
he lurched forward, leaving a pool of bright blood where his
muzzle hit the ground; but he recovered himself and made two or
three jumps onwards, while I hurriedly jammed a couple of
cartridges into the magazine, my rifle holding only four, all of
which I had fired. Then he tried to pull up, but as he did so his
muscles seemed suddenly to give way, his head drooped, and he
rolled over and over like a shot rabbit. Each of my first three
bullets had inflicted a mortal wound. [Footnote: "The Wilderness
Hunter," pp. 305-6.]

There were, once, near Mr. Roosevelt's ranch, three men who had
been suspected of cattle-killing and horse-stealing. The leader
was a tall fellow named Finnegan, who had long red hair reaching
to his shoulders, and always wore a broad hat and a fringed
buckskin shirt. He had been in a number of shooting scrapes. The
others were a half-breed, and a German, who was weak and shiftless
rather than actively bad. They had a bad reputation, and were
trying to get out of the country before the Vigilance Committee
got them.