I had wounded the bear just at sunset, in a wood of lodge-pole pines, and, following him, I wounded him again, as he stood on the other side of a thicket.

He then charged through the brush, coming with such speed and with such an irregular gait that, try as I would, I was not able to get the sight of my rifle on the brain-pan, though I hit him very hard with both the remaining barrels of my magazine Winchester.

It was in the days of black powder, and the smoke hung.

After my last shot, the first thing I saw was the bear's left paw as he struck at me, so close that I made a quick movement to one side.
He was, however, practically already dead, and after another jump, and while in the very act of trying to turn to come at me, he collapsed like a shot rabbit.
By the way, I had a most exasperating time trying to bring in his skin.
I was alone, traveling on foot with one very docile little mountain mare for a pack pony.

The little mare cared nothing for bears or anything else, so there was no difficulty in packing her.