Round and round him now the riders swooped, waiting their chance.  More than once his neck was caught, but he slipped the noose as though it were all play.  Again he was caught by a foot and wrenched, almost thrown, by the weight of two strong steeds, and now he foamed in rage.  Memories of olden days, or more likely the habit of olden days, came on him—­days when he learned to strike the yelping pack that dodged his blows.  He was far from the burnt thicket, but a single bush was near, and setting his broad back to that, he waited for the circling foe.  Nearer and nearer they urged the frightened steeds, and Monarch watched—­waited, as of old, for the dogs, till they were almost touching each other, then he sprang like an avalanche of rock.  What can elude a Grizzly’s dash?  The earth shivered as he launched himself, and trembled when he struck.  Three men, three horses, in each other’s way.  The dust was thick; they only knew he struck—­struck—­struck!  The horses never rose.

“Santa Maria!” came a cry of death, and hovering riders dashed to draw the Bear away.  Three horses dead, one man dead, one nearly so, and only one escaped.

“Crack! crack! crack!” went the pistols now as the Bear went rocking his huge form in rapid charge for the friendly hills; and the four riders, urged by Kellyan, followed fast.  They passed him, wheeled, faced him.  The pistols had wounded him in many places.

“Don’t shoot—­don’t shoot, but tire him out,” the hunter urged.

“Tire him out?  Look at Carlos and Manuel back there.  How many minutes will it be before the rest are down with them?” So the infuriating pistols popped till all their shots were gone, and Monarch foamed with slobbering jaws of rage.

“Keep on! keep cool,” cried Kellyan.

His lariat flew as the cattle-killing paw was lifted for an instant.  The lasso bound his wrist.  “Sing!  Sing!” went two, and caught him by the neck.  A bull with his great club-foot in a noose is surely caught, but the Grizzly raised his supple, hand-like, tapering paw and gave one jerk that freed it.  Now the two on his neck were tight; he could not slip them.  The horses at the ends—­they were dragging, choking him; men were shouting, hovering, watching for a new chance, when Monarch, firmly planting both paws, braced, bent those mighty shoulders, and, spite of shortening breath, leaned back on those two ropes as Samson did on pillars of the house of Baal, and straining horses with their riders were dragged forward more and more, long grooves being plowed behind; dragging them, he backed faster and faster still.  His eyes were starting, his tongue lolling out.

“Keep on! hold tight!” was the cry, till the ropers swung together, the better to resist; and Monarch, big and strong with frenzied hate, seeing now his turn, sprang forward like a shot.  The horses leaped and escaped—­almost; the last was one small inch too slow.  The awful paw with jags of steel just grazed his flank.  How slight it sounds!  But what it really means is better not writ down.