Gabriel had come in pursuit of the boar, but now he changed his mind, for, considering the present angry mood of Bruin, he was certain to be attacked by him if discovered.  As to going away, it was a thing he would not think of, as long as his rifle was loaded; so he waited and watched, until the bear should give him an opportunity of aiming at a vital part.  This he waited for in vain, and, on reflection, he determined to wound the bear:  for, knowing the humour of the animal, he felt almost positive it would produce a conflict between him and the boar, which the bear would attack in his wrath.  He fired; the bear was evidently wounded, although but slightly, and he began roaring and scratching his neck in a most furious manner, and looking vindictively at the boar, which, at the report of the rifle, had merely raised his head for a moment, and then resumed his meal.  Bruin was certainly persuaded that the wound he had received had been inflicted by the beast below.  He made up his mind to punish him, and, to spare the trouble and time of descending, dropped from the tree, and rushed upon the boar, which met him at once, and, notwithstanding Bruin’s great strength, he proved to him that a ten years’ old wild boar, with seven-inch tusks, was a very formidable antagonist.  Bruin soon felt the tusks of the boar ripping him up; ten or twelve streams of blood were rushing from his sides, yet he did not give way; on the contrary, he grew fiercer and fiercer, and at last the boar was almost smothered under the huge paws of his adversary.  The struggle lasted a few minutes more, the grunting and growling becoming fainter and fainter, till both combatants lay motionless.  They were dead when Gabriel came up to them; the bear horribly mangled, and the boar with every bone of his body broken.  Gabriel filled his hat with the persimons which were the cause of this tragedy, and returned to the camp for help and ammunition.

Finn, Boone, and I resumed our journey, and after a smart ride of two hours we entered upon a beautiful spot, called “Magnet Cove.”  This is one of the great curiosities of the Arkansas, and there are few planters who do not visit it at least once in their lives, even if they have to travel a distance of one hundred miles.

It is a small valley surrounded by rocky hills, one or two hundred feet high, and forming a belt, in the shape of a horse-shoe.  From these rocks flow hundreds of sulphuric springs, some boiling and some cold, all pouring into large basins, which their waters have dug out during their constant flow of so many centuries.  These mineral springs are so very numerous in this part of the country, that they would scarcely be worth mentioning, were it not that in this valley, for more than a mile in circumference, the stones and rocks, which are of a dull black colour and very heavy, are all magnetic.

It is a custom for every visitor to bring with him some pieces of iron, to throw against the rocks:  the appearance is very strange; old horse-shoes, forks, knives, bars of iron, nails, and barrels of pistols, are hanging from the projecting stones, the nails standing upright, as if they were growing.  These pieces of iron have themselves become very powerfully magnetic.  I picked up a horse-shoe, which I afterwards found lifted a bar of steel of two pounds weight.