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 John Shields had equipped for him. Out he ran, upon the ice of the river. His quick eye had noted a black object floating down the channel aboard a floe. No Indian was after it, yet. He would show that he was as good a hunter as any Indian.

Buffalo? Elk? Deer? Wah! It was crouching, and he could not yet tell. But fast he ran, in the slush, dodging air-holes, and with the ice weaving and bending beneath him. Suddenly, as he approached, heading off the floe, the creature stood. It was no buffalo, or elk, or deer; it was a bear.

Wah, again! Also, hooray! Voices were shouting at him, to turn back; but, no, he would not turn back, even for a bear. He was a hunter. He ran faster, because he was afraid that some of the men would come with guns.

He reached the edge of the channel. The bear stiffened, lowered its head, and bristled, showing every fang. No "white bear" was it, evidently. It was a brown bear, but an old one, large and cross. Below, a few yards, the channel narrowed; the floe might lodge there, or the bear be enabled to spring from it to the other ice. Peter must act quick. He knelt and bent his bow—drew the arrow clear to the iron point, so that his arm holding the bow was straight and the hand of the other arm was against his shoulder. That was the way to shoot. The bear was right in front of him, balancing on the ice cake. Twang-thud! The arrow