e up to the high standard of frozen truth had not been
in vain, that it was with the greatest difficulty I dropped a
sympathetic tear when the old settler of Truckee mourned the sad fate
of his Italian friends.

If memory be not at fault, it was the episode of the woodchoppers that
precipitated the long-cherished design of Virginia City's most noted
sportsmen to make a combined effort to secure the pelt of Old Brin and
undying glory. About a score of them, heavily armed and provisioned
for a month, sallied forth from the Comstock to find and camp upon the
trail of the clubfoot bear. They returned without his pelt, but they
brought back some picturesque and lurid explanations of their failure
and added several chapters to the history of Old Brin.

One of the party was Ned Foster, who never stood to lose on any
proposition and never was known to play any game on the square. Being
lame, Foster did not have any ambition to meet the big bear, but
contented himself with shooting birds for the pot and helping the camp
cook. One morning, after all the mighty hunters had gone out on their
quest, Foster picked up his shot-gun, jocularly remarked that he
guessed he would fetch in a bear, and limped away toward a brushy
ridge. Presently the cook heard a shot, followed by yells of alarm,
and peering from the tent he saw Foster coming down the slope on a
gallop, followed by a monstrous bear. The cook seized a rifle, tried
to load it with shot cartridges, and realizing that his agitation made
him hopelessly futile, abandoned the attempt to help Foster and
scrambled up a tree. From his perch the cook watched with solicitude
the progress of Foster and the bear, shouting to Foster excited advice
to increase his pace and informing him of gains made by the pursuer.

"Run, Ned! Good Lord, why don't you let yourself out?" yelled the
frantic cook, as Foster lost a length on the turn into the
home-stretch. "You're not running a lick on God's green earth. The
bear's gaining on you every jump, Ned. Turn yourself loose! Ned,
you've just got to run to beat that bear!"

Ned went by the tree in a hitch-and-kick gallop, and as he passed he
gasped in scornful tones: "You yapping coyote, do you think I'm selling
this race!" Perhaps he wasn't, but it looked that way to the man up
the tree.

That was the end of the tale as it was told by the Comstockers, who
refused to spoil a good climax by gratifying mere idle curiosity about
the fin