So one of the
first things he did after our arrival was to drag out an old dried hide
and hang it on a fence in the corral and asked me to shoot an arrow
through it. It was surely a test, for the old bear had been a tough
customer and his hide was half an inch thick and as hard as sole
leather.
But I drew up at thirty yards and let drive at the neck, the thickest
portion. My arrow went through half its length and transfixed a paw
that dangled behind. Tom opened his eyes and smiled. "That will do," he
said, "if you can get into them that far, that's all you need. I'll
take you out tomorrow morning, but I'll pack the old Winchester rifle
just for the sake of the dogs."
The dogs were Tom's real asset, and his hobby. There were five of them.
The two best, Baldy and Button, were Kentucky coon hounds in their
prime, probably being descendants of the English fox hound with the
admixture of harrier and bloodhound strains. Their breed has been in
the family for thirty years. Tom took great pride in his pack, trained
them to run nothing but bear and mountain lions, and never let anybody
else touch them.
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