In that moment of consternation and rage Neewa did not take size into consideration.  He was much in the frame of mind of a man returning home to discover his domicile, and all it contained, in full possession of another.  At the same time here was his ambition easily to be achieved—­his ambition to lick the daylight out of a member of his own kind.  Miki seemed to sense this fact.  Under ordinary conditions he would have led in the fray, and before Neewa had fairly got started, would have been at the impudent interloper’s throat.  But now something held him back, and it was Neewa who first shot out—­like a black bolt—­landing squarely in the ribs of his unsuspecting enemy.

(Old Makoki, the Cree runner, had he seen that attack, would instantly have found a name for the other bear—­“Petoot-a-wapis-kum,” which means, literally:  “Kicked-off-his-Feet.”  Perhaps he would have called him “Pete” for short.  For the Cree believes in fitting names to fact, and Petoot-a-wapis-kum certainly fitted the unknown bear like a glove.)

Taken utterly by surprise, with his mouth full of berries, he was bowled over like an overfilled bag under the force of Neewa’s charge.  So complete was his discomfiture for the moment that Miki, watching the affair with a yearning interest, could not keep back an excited yap of approbation.  Before Pete could understand what had happened, and while the berries were still oozing from his mouth, Neewa was at his throat—­and the fun began.

Now bears, and especially young bears, have a way of fighting that is all their own.  It reminds one of a hair-pulling contest between two well-matched ladies.  There are no rules to the game—­ absolutely none.  As Pete and Neewa clinched, their hind legs began to do the fighting, and the fur began to fly.  Pete, being already on his back—­a first-class battling position for a bear—­would have possessed an advantage had it not been for Neewa’s ferocious hold at his throat.  As it was, Neewa sank his fangs in to their full length, and scrubbed away for dear life with his sharp hind claws.  Miki drew nearer at sight of the flying fur, his soul filled with joy.  Then Pete got one leg into action, and then the other, and Miki’s jaws came together with a sudden click.  Over and over the two fighters rolled, Neewa holding to his throat-grip, and not a squeal or a grunt came from either of them.  Pebbles and dirt flew along with hair and fur.  Stones rolled with a clatter down the coulee.  The very air trembled with the thrill of combat.  In Miki’s attitude of tense waiting there was something now of suspicious anxiety.  With eight furry legs scratching and tearing furiously, and the two fighters rolling and twisting and contorting themselves like a pair of windmills gone mad, it was almost impossible for Miki to tell who was getting the worst of it—­Neewa or Pete; at least he was in doubt for a matter of three or four minutes.

Then he recognized Neewa’s voice.  It was very faint, but for all that it was an unmistakable bawl of pain.