uld not be more than
half that weight.

* * * * *

We spent the evening in debate as to where the next drive should be
made. Some favored moving six miles eastward, to the old mining shack at
Siler's Meadow, and trying the headwaters of Forney's Creek, around Rip
Shin Thicket and the Gunstick Laurel, driving towards Clingman Dome and
over into the bleak gulf, southwest of the Sugarland Mountains, that I
had named Godforsaken--a title that stuck. We knew there were bears in
that region, though it was a desperately rough country to hunt in.

But John and the hunchback had found "sign" in the opposite direction.
Bears were crossing from Little River in the neighborhood of Thunderhead
and Briar Knob, coming up just west of the Devil's Court House and
"using" around Block House, Woolly Ridge, Bear Pen, and thereabouts.
The motion carried, and we adjourned to bed.

We breakfasted on bear meat, the remains of our Thanksgiving turkey, and
wheat bread shortened with bear's grease until it was light as a
feather; and I made tea. It was the first time that Little John ever saw
"store tea." He swallowed some of it as if it had been boneset, under
the impression that it was some sort of "yerb" that would be good for
his insides. Without praising its flavor, he asked what it had cost,
and, when I told him "a dollar a pound," reckoned that it was "rich
man's medicine"; said he preferred dittany or sassafras or goldenrod.
"Doc" Jones opined that it "looked yaller," and he even affirmed that it
"tasted yaller."

"Waal, people," exclaimed Matt, "I 'low I've done growed a bit, atter
that mess o' meat. Le's be movin'."

It was a hard pull for me, climbing up the rocky approach to Briar Knob.
This was my first trip to the main divide, and my heart was not yet used
to mountain climbing.

The boys were anxious for me to get a shot. I was paying them nothing;
it was share-and-share alike; but their neighborly kindness moved them
to do their best for the outlander.

So they put me on what was probably the best stand for the day. It was
above the Fire-scald, a brule or burnt-over space on the steep southern
side of the ridge between Briar Knob and Laurel Top, overlooking the
grisly slope of Killpeter. Here I could both see and hear an uncommonly
long distance, and if the bear went either east or west I would have
timely warning.

This Fire-scald, by the way, is a famous place for wildcats. Once in a
blu