“Look at that,”—­he pointed to a thing like a Bear-track, but scarcely two inches long.  “There’s the B’ar we’ll find in that; that’s a bushy-tailed B’ar,” and Bonamy joined in the laugh when he realized that the victim in the big trap was nothing but a little skunk.

“Next time we’ll set the bait higher and not set the trigger so fine.”

They rubbed their boots with stale meat when they went the rounds, then left the traps for a week.

There are Bears that eat little but roots and berries; there are Bears that love best the great black salmon they can hook out of the pools when the long “run” is on; and there are Bears that have a special fondness for flesh.  These are rare; they are apt to develop unusual ferocity and meet an early death.  Gringo was one of them, and he grew like the brawny, meat-fed gladiators of old—­bigger, stronger, and fiercer than his fruit-and root-fed kin.  In contrast with this was his love of honey.  The hunter on his trail learned that he never failed to dig out any bees’ nest he could find, or, finding none, he would eat the little honey-flowers that hung like sleigh-bells on the heather.  Kellyan was quick to mark the signs.  “Say, Bonamy, we’ve got to find some honey.”

It is not easy to find a bee tree without honey to fill your bee-guides; so Bonamy rode down the mountain to the nearest camp, the Tampico sheep camp, and got not honey but some sugar, of which they made syrup.  They caught bees at three or four different places, tagged them with cotton, filled them with syrup and let them fly, watching till the cotton tufts were lost to view, and by going on the lines till they met they found the hive.  A piece of gunny-sack filled with comb was put on each trigger, and that night, as Gringo strode with that long, untiring swing that eats up miles like steam-wheels, his sentinel nose reported the delicious smell, the one that above the rest meant joy.  So Gringo Jack followed fast and far, for the place was a mile away, and reaching the curious log cavern, he halted and sniffed.  There were hunters’ smells; yes, but, above all, that smell of joy.  He walked around to be sure, and knew it was inside; then cautiously he entered.  Some wood-mice scurried by.  He sniffed the bait, licked it, mumbled it, slobbered it, reveled in it, tugged to increase the flow, when “bang!” went the great door behind and Jack was caught.  He backed up with a rush, bumped into the door, and had a sense, at least, of peril.  He turned over with an effort and attacked the door, but it was strong.  He examined the pen; went all around the logs where their rounded sides seemed easiest to tear at with his teeth.  But they yielded nothing.  He tried them all; he tore at the roof, the floor; but all were heavy, hard logs, spiked and pinned as one.

The sun came up as he raged, and shone through the little cracks of the door, and so he turned all his power on that.  The door was flat, gave little hold, but he battered with his paws and tore with his teeth till plank after plank gave way.  With a final crash be drove the wreck before him and Jack was free again.