"A b'ar hates snow on his toes. Only time of year when
I'm afraid of a b'ar is when he is jest out of his den in the spring,
and when he's huntin' fer a den in a snowstorm."
Addison and I were crying, "Whoa!" and trying to hold those ten horses.
Asa was similarly engaged with his six on the scoot. Every instant, too,
the sounds were coming nearer, and a moment later two large animals
appeared ahead of us in the stormy obscurity. One was chasing the other,
and was striking him with his paw; their snarls and roars were terrific.
We caught only a glimpse of them. Then all sixteen of the horses bolted
at once. Asa could not hold his six. They whirled off the trail and ran
down among the trees toward a brook that we could hear brawling in the
bed of the ravine. They took the scoot with them, and in wild confusion
our ten led horses followed madly after them. Bags, harnesses, axes, and
shovels flew off the scoot. Halters crossed and crisscrossed. I was
pulled off the load, and came near being trodden on by the horses
behind. I could not see what had become of old Tommy or the bears.
Still hanging to his reins, Asa had jumped from the scoot.
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