The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1884-02-14
DEAD IN THE GULCH.

A gulch dividing two foothills. Ii
is lonely enough for canon, and rug.
ged enough for ravine, but it is q
gulch. 1t dips here-rises there-turns
to the right and left in an erratic way,
and one who picks his path through the
place must feel the solemn stiffness
chill his soul.
Look therei Just where the gulch
widens bit, as if to expand its lungs, a
great cinnamon bear is taking his af-
ternoon nap in front of his den. Men
read of the fierceness of the grizzly and
forget the terrible hug, the shasp claws
and the awful teeth Of the cinnamon.
Look at that paw covering his nose!
The claws are iron hooks with points
like needles; the paw is a mass of meat
and muscle ten times as hard as the
fist of pugilist, and more dangerous
than the kick of horse. That LEG, al
most as thick as the limb of a strong
man in his prime, has muscles that
never tire and bone that would stand
blow from a sledge hammer.
Hark!
The cinnamon opens his eyes. TIE
reports of rifles and the Indians come
to him from down the gulch where the
immigrant trail crosses. These are no
new sounds to his ears, but as he drops
his Jaws and lifts his head he catches
something less familiar. 1t is the
frightened cries of child-shouts of
terror in which there is a mingling of
sobs of grief. Above these cries come
the shouts of the red-men, and the bear
utters low growl as he realizes that
he may be disturbed.
Patter! Patter! Patteri
1t is the footsteps of some one in
fight-some one coming up the gulch.
A sui docpvr grown, snort or aston
ishment, and a boy s or 9 years old,
bare-headed, white-faced, and eyes full
of terror, comes running for his life.
Behind him is an Indian warrior with
tomahawk ready to strike. In the brief
but terrible struggle around the wagon
this child crept away, and terror lent
him wings to fly.
In another moment the warrior will
be within striking distance. Pity? Look
into his bronzed face, daubed here and
there with war-paint, and find trace of
pity or mercy! He will not even make
the child prisoner, A scalp is tro-
phy, whether from the head of an adult
or babe, furious that the boy should
hold him such race, when fright and
horror are pulling at the muscles to
weaken them; he strains every nerve
and heads straight up the dark and
rugged gulch as if the lonely shadows
would wrap him in mantle of safety.
A brown body suddenly rises up be-
fore the boy, and there is growl and
roar in his very face. He throws up
his arms with shrek and falls upon
the rocky path, and the brute leaps
over him to face the pursuing warrior.
Stange tableau!
They are not ten feet apart. The
cinnamon sits up and stretches out one
fore-leg and then the other, as if max
ing ready to box, and his lips part TO
reveal teeth almost as sharp as the war
rior's tomahawk
The Sioux stands with one leg thrown
forward and his hatchet half raised,
and he looks straight into the eyes of
the foe barring his path.
Tomahawk UerSuS teeth!
Huuting-knife gerSuS claws!
The grasp of an athlete UerSus the
hug of a cinnamon!
The boy rises to his knees and creeps
to the side of the gulch opposite the
den, and with his back to rocks be-
comes spectator TO the tableau.
One! ...--.
There is long growl from the bear.
He is looking into the eyes of the In
dian, and he sees defiance there.
TWo!
The warriors clutch tightens over
the handle of his tomahawk. He sees
the wicked claws working ard he
knows what is coming.
Three!
A roar-a yell-a rush, and two
bodies weave to and fro in the gloom
wrestle from side to side. and the Gin
namon is victor. 1t is well for the boy
Better be in the power of the bear than
the warrior. The cinnamon bends over
his conquered enemy with growls and
shifts, and then slowly turns and ap-
proaches the boy.
The child does not move. He lives
and breathes and sees and hears, but
the acme of terror has killed all mus
cular action. The bear comes close to
UlLu-SultlS Ol HIS ittl-SuluS dt HIS
breast-breathes into his face, but he
neither draws back nor cries out. His
great blue eyes ask for pity, and the
cinnamon turns back to the body of the
dead.
Craunch!
Those terrible teeth seized an out
stretched arm and crushed the bones
as if they had been pipe stems.
Gawgle!
The severed arteries and mangled
veins pour forth their hot store of
blood, but it is not wasted. The Gin
namon is thirsty. Here is something
better than the cold spring water Of
the foothills.
Re1ld and teGri
The feast has begun. The boy closes
his eyes, but he cannot prevent these
horrible sounds from filing his ears.
The sun was not two hours high
when ne fled from the wagon. The
feast is not ended when dark shadows
begin to troop Up and down the galch