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Understanding Computers And
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.
thing. We sent them down, first backward, then forward, and either
way the little fellows seemed to enjoy the sport as much as we; and
it was not long before they would climb up on the root and, ducking
their tiny heads, would go rolling down the toboggan slide, and in
the end we actually had to tie them up to keep them from overdoing
it.
 Making friends

Sometimes they would play like kittens. They would roll over and
over, biting and wrestling, and we would laugh until our sides fairly
ached. At other times they seemed to feel cranky and out of sorts,
and then they would claw and fight each other. These spells always
occurred when they were tied to their stake and were pacing the
circle in front of their cave.
We continued to keep them fastened most of the time by their
buckskin leads to the stake driven near their den, and they spent
much of their time walking round and round in circles. They never
however, by any chance, accompanied each other in the same
direction, but invariably travelled different ways; and for the most
part they rather ignored each other when they met on these
journeys, or stopped to play in all friendliness. Perhaps they would
pass without noticing each other a dozen times, when suddenly, as
they met again, they would rise on their hind legs and look at each
other with an expression of complete surprise, as who should say:
“Where in all creation did you come from? Here I have been
travelling this circle for half an hour, and never mistrusted there was
another bear in this part of the country.” And then, as though
determined to celebrate the lucky meeting, they would embrace and
tumble about for a few minutes and then separate and, perhaps,
pass each other a dozen times more with no notice taken. And then
the little comedy would be re-enacted.
But on days when their tempers were touchy these meetings were
apt to be less playful. Instead of surprise they would then exhibit
resentment at finding their imaginary solitude invaded; and after a
few spiteful slaps with their little paws, they would clinch and bite
and claw each other in earnest. Usually they would break away from
these clinches quite suddenly and resume their tramp; only,
however, to reopen hostilities at an early date. Ben, although the
smaller of the two, always seemed to get the better of his brother in
the boxing bouts and wrestling matches. He entered into each with
an earnestness that seemed to put the larger cub to flight; and yet
in spite of the fact that as they grew older their battles seemed to
grow more fierce, we thought nothing of the matter, but looked on
and laughed at the Lilliputian struggles. But one day when we
returned to camp we found George dead in the little trail that circled
the stake to which they were tied, while Ben in his rounds stepped
over the body of his dead brother at each turn. George’s face and
nose were chewed beyond identification and he had been dead
several hours.
Ben had now no companions except ourselves and one of the
dogs which I had brought along and whose name was Jim; but in
spite of this, or because of it, he grew more friendly and playful each
day. He would coax Jim to come and romp with him and they would
chase each other about until the dog was tired out. Ben seemed to
be tireless and would never quit playing until chained up, or until the
badgered dog turned on him in earnest. Even then the bear used
not to give up hope immediately. After the first really angry snap
from Jim, Ben would stand off a few feet and look apologetic. Then,
if nothing more happened, he would approach the dog with a kind of
experimental briskness; only, however, to turn a back somersault in
his haste to get out of the reach of Jim’s teeth. A few minutes later,
after Jim had lain down and was apparently asleep, Ben would steal
up quietly and, very gently, with just the tip of his paw, would touch
his old playfellow to find out if he really meant that the romp was
off. And it was the deep growl that always greeted this last appeal
that seemed to settle the matter in Ben’s mind. He would then keep
out of Jim’s way until the latter felt like having another play.
Ben was very quick to learn and we only had to show him a few
times to have him catch on to a new trick. He continued to enjoy
cartwheeling down the old root, and one of the other things he took
to with the most zest was a sort of juggling act with a ball. This
trick, like the other, we discovered by accident, and then worked up
into a more elaborate performance. We finally made him a large ball
out of a length of rope, sewed it up in a gunny-sack to keep it from
unwinding, and he would lie on his back and keep the thing spinning
with his four feet by the hour.
Early in July the weather finally became settled. The new snow
had melted away, the old snow banks were fast disappearing, the
little open park on the side of the mountain above our camp was
green with young grass and literally carpeted with flowers. So one
morning we rounded up the ponies, saddled and packed them, put
the cub into a grain sack, tied up the mouth, placed it on top of one
of the packs, tied each of its four corners to one of the lash ropes
that held the pack to the horse, and started into the unexplored
Clearwater country in the heart of the Bitter Roots.
The horse selected for Ben’s mount was a little tan-colored beast
who gave very little trouble on the trail, and whom we called
Buckskin. We never had to lead him and he would always follow
without watching. He would, when he found good feed, loiter behind
until the pack train was nearly out of sight; but then, with a loud
neigh, he would come charging along, jumping logs and dashing
through thick bushes until the train was again caught up with. The
first day’s travel was a dangerous one for the bear on account of the
many low-hanging limbs. We were obliged to keep a constant watch
lest one of these catch the sack and either sweep it from the pack or
crush Ben to death inside it. But with care and good luck we got
through safely and, after seven hours of travel, reaching an open
side hill with plenty of feed for the horses and a clear cold spring, we
went into camp.
While we were unpacking the horses an old trapper and
prospector known as Old Jerry came along. He was one of the first
men who made their way into that wilderness, and for many years
he and his cabin on the Lockasaw Fork of the Clearwater were
among the curiosities of the region. We had put Ben, still in his sack,
on the ground while we got things settled for the night, and Old
Jerry, seeing the sack moving, asked what we had in it. When he
heard that it was a Black Bear cub he asked permission to turn it out
and have a look at it and we told him to go ahead. After loosening
the cord that closed the mouth, he took the sack by the two lower
corners and gave it a shake, and out rolled Ben in his favorite
toboganning posture of a fluffy ball. The cub seemed to think this a
variation of the pine root game, and to the astonishment and delight
of Old Jerry continued turning somersaults for ten or fifteen feet. Old
Jerry is still alive, and to this day I never meet him that he does not
speak of my performing cub.
 The next day we cut a hole in the sack so that he could ride with
his head out

The next day we again put Ben in the sack, but this time we cut a
hole in the side of it, so that he could ride with his head out. For a
while he was contented with this style of riding, but after some days
he got to working on the sack until he was able to crawl through the
hole. Then, as we found that he could keep his seat very nicely and
would even, when his pony passed under a branch or leaning tree,
dodge to one side of the pack and hang there until the danger was
past, we adopted his amendment and from this time on never again
put him in the sack when on the march. Instead, we arranged to
give him a good flat pack to ride on. We put a roll of blankets on
each side of the horse, close up to the horns of the pack saddle, and
tied them in place. Then the space between was filled with small
articles and a heavy canvas thrown over all and cinched in place.
And on top of this Ben would pass the day. We tied his lead to the
lash rope and he seemed perfectly content, and in fact appeared to
enjoy the excitement of being jolted and shaken along through the
timber and brush. It kept him on the jump to dodge the limbs and
switches that were always threatening to unseat him, but in all of his
four months’ riding through the mountains, I never saw him taken
unawares. Nor was he ever thrown by a bucking horse. Sometimes
he would get down from his seat on top of the pack and sit on the
pony’s neck, holding by one paw to the front of the pack. Sometimes
he would lie curled up as though asleep. But he was never caught
off his guard, and his horse Buckskin seemed not to care how much
he climbed about on its back.
Ben soon came to know his own horse, and after Buckskin was
packed of a morning would run to the pony’s side and bawl to be
lifted to his place on the pack. And once there he spent several
minutes each morning inspecting the canvas and the ropes of his
pack. Several times during the summer we were obliged to transfer
Ben to another mount, but we had to be mighty careful in our
arrangements, as we learned to our cost the first time we tried the
experiment. This was on a day when we had a difficult mountain to
descend, and we thought we would lighten Buckskin’s load by
putting Ben on another horse that was carrying less weight. We got
him settled on Baldy, as we called the other cayuse, without any
trouble, and started out in the usual order; but just as we were on a
particularly steep part of the hill, working our way down through a
track of burned but still standing timber where the dry dirt and
ashes were several inches deep and the dust and heat almost
unbearable, there was a sudden commotion in the rear. We turned
to see what was happening, and out of a cloud of dust and ashes
Baldy bore frantically down upon us. His back was arched and with
his head down between his fore-legs he was giving one of the most
perfect exhibitions of the old-school style of bucking that any one
ever saw.
Now it is useless to try to catch a bucking horse on a steep
mountain side. The only thing to be done was to get out of the road
and wait until the frightened animal either lost its footing and rolled
to the foot of the declivity or reached the bottom right side up and
stopped of its own accord. So we jumped to one side. But, just as
Ben and his maddened steed enveloped in a cloud of ash dust swept
past the balance of the now frightened horses, the pack hit against a
dead tree whose root had nearly rotted away and the result
completed the confusion. For the force of the shock first dislodged a
large section of loosely hanging bark which came down with much
noise, striking the head packhorse squarely across the back; and this
was almost instantly followed by the falling of the old tree itself,
which came down with a crash of breaking limbs and dead branches,
and sent up a cloud of dust that completely hid Ben and his
cavorting mount as they tore down the mountain. This was too
much for the leading pony, who already stood shivering with
excitement, and turning sharp to the right he shot off around the
side of the mountain.
The other horses were quickly tied up, and while Spencer hurried
after the runaway leader I took down through the burned timber
after Baldy. Had the latter known how hard it had been to shake that
same little bear from the limb of the old tree, he never would have
spent so much energy in trying to buck him off the top of the pack.
Ben had not looked in the least troubled as he was hurried past us,
but had apparently felt himself complete master of the situation. He
had, however, almost instantly disappeared from view, and soon
even the sound of the bounding pony and the breaking of the dead
branches as the pack hit them was no longer to be heard. The only
things that marked their course were the deep imprints of the pony’s
feet and the dust cloud that was settling down among the dead and
blackened timber. Hurrying along this easily followed trail I at last
reached the bottom of the gorge and found the tracks still leading
up the opposite slope. But the horse had soon tired of the strenuous
work of the steep ascent, and after a couple of hundred yards he
had come to a standstill in a thick clump of trees and underbrush
that had escaped the fire. Ben was still sitting in his place as
unconcerned as though nothing had happened, but was liberally
covered with ashes and did not seem to be in the best of humors.
The pack did not appear to have slipped any and so I undid the lead
rope and started back toward where the pack train had been left.
But when only a few yards on the way the pony suddenly bolted
ahead, nearly knocking me down as he tried to get past. I brought
him to a halt with a few sharp yanks on the rope, and then kept a
careful eye to the rear to find out what it was that was startling him.
I did not suspect Ben because none of the horses had ever shown
the least fear of him, had always allowed him to run about them as
they did the dogs, and no one of them had ever even kicked at him.
Nevertheless I had noticed that the cub seemed grumpy when we
put him on Baldy, and remembered that at first he had bawled and
tried to get down. So I kept my eye on him. And the first thing I
knew I saw him push out his upper lip, as all bears do when mad
and out of humor, reach out stealthily one of his hind legs, and with
a sharp stroke drive his catlike claws into Baldy’s rump. So here was
the cause of all the trouble. Ben, objecting to the change of
programme, had been taking it out on the horse. I at once tied him
up so short that he could not reach the horse from the pack, and,
although he was in a huff all that day, we had no further trouble
with him. Only twice after this, however, did we mount him on any
other horse but his own Buckskin.
Each day’s travel now brought us nearer to the main range, and
one day we climbed the last ridge and camped on the border of one
of the beautiful summit meadows where grow the camas, the
shooting-star, the dog-tooth violet, the spring beauty, and other
plants that the grizzlies love. The snow, by now, had disappeared,
except the immense banks lying in the deep ravines on the north
side of the upper peaks; the marshes were literally cut up by the
tracks of deer, elk, and moose; while freshly dug holes and the
enormous tracks of grizzlies told us plainly that we had reached the
happy hunting ground. And now I began to learn from Ben much
about the wonderful instincts of animals. Ben had never, before we
captured him, had a mouthful of any food except his mother’s milk.
Not only had the family just left the winter den in which the little
cubs had been born, but the earth at that time, and for long after,
had been covered deep with snow. So that there was nothing for
even a grown bear to eat except some of the scant grasses that our
horses found along the little open places on the sides of the hills, or
the juices and soft slimy substances to be found beneath the bark of
the mountain spruce trees in the spring and early summer.
But now, while camped near this mountain meadow, Ben would
pull at his leash and even bawl to get loose, and I soon took to
letting him go and to following him about to learn what it was that
he wished to do. I was amazed to find that he knew every root and
plant that the oldest bears knew of and fed upon in that particular
range of mountains. He would work around by the hour, paying not
the least attention to my presence; eat a bit of grass here, dig for a
root there, and never once make a mistake. When he got something
that I did not recognize, I would take it away from him and examine
it to see what it was, and in this way I learned many kinds of roots
that the bears feed on in their wild state. I have seen Ben dig a foot
down into the ground and unearth a bulb that had not yet started to
send out its shoot. Later, when the time came for the sarvis berries
and huckleberries to ripen, he would go about pulling down bushes,
searching for berries. And not once in the whole summer did I ever
see him pull down a bush that was not a berry bush. This was the
more remarkable because he would occasionally examine berry
bushes on which there happened to be no berries at the time.
 At our next camp we killed a small moose for meat, and the hide
was used during the remainder of the trip as a cover for one of the
packs. After a few days in the sun it dried as hard as a board and of
course took the shape of the pack over which it had been used. And
this skin box now became Ben’s home when in camp. It was placed
on the ground, Ben’s picket pin driven near it, and he soon learned
to raise up one edge and crawl inside. It was funny, when he had
done some mischief in camp and we stamped our feet and took after
him, to see him fly to the protection of his skin teepee, and raise the
edge with one paw so quickly that there was no apparent pause in
his flight. Then, safe inside, we would hear him strike the ground
with his forefoot and utter angry “whoofs,” daring us to come any
nearer. After a few minutes the edge of the hide would be lifted a
few inches and a little gray nose would peep out to see if the coast
was clear. If no notice was taken of him he would come back into
camp, only to get into trouble again and be once more shooed back
to cover.
Ben took great pride in this home of his and was an exemplary
housekeeper, for no insect was ever permitted to dwell in the coarse
hair. At first, when the hide was green, the flies would crowd into
the hair and “blow,” or deposit their eggs. These Ben never allowed
to hatch. As soon as he was off his pony he would get to work on his
house, and with much sniffing and clawing, would dig out and eat
every egg to be found. And not one ever escaped his keen little
nose. Many times in the night we would hear him sniffing and
snuffing away, searching out the fly-blows.
He grew to be more of a pet each day and he still juggled his ball
of rope. Indeed, he got to be a great expert at this trick. He knew
his own frying-pan from the others, and would set up a hungry bawl
as soon as it was brought out. His food in camp was still flour and
water, a little sugar, and condensed milk. This we fed him for more
than a month, after which we cut out the milk and gave him just
flour and water with a pinch of sugar. He did not care about meat
and would eat his frying-pan food, or bread, in preference to deer or
moose meat. Sometimes, when we killed a grizzly, we would bring in
some of the meat and cook it for the dogs. This was the only meat
that Ben would touch and very little of that. But although he
occasionally consented to dine on bear meat, he showed
unmistakable signs of temper whenever a new bear-skin was added
to our growing pile of pelts. On these occasions, even before the
hide was brought to camp, we would find him on our return in a
towering rage. No amount of coaxing would induce him to take a
romp. Not even for his only four-footed friend, Jim, would he come
out of his huff. He would retreat beneath his moose-skin house, and
we could hear him strike the ground, champ his jaws, and utter his
blowing “whoofs.” I was never able to make out whether he
resented or was made fearful by the killing of his kind, or whether it
was the smell of the grizzlies, of which the Black Bear is more or less
afraid, that affected him. He still remembered his mother, and on
every occasion when he could get to our pile of bear hides he would
dig out her skin—the only Black Bear skin in the lot—sniff it all over,
and lie on it until dragged away. Indeed he seemed to mourn so
much over it, even whimpering and howling every time the wind was
in the right direction for him to smell it, that we finally had to keep
this hide away from camp.
One day a little later on, as we were working our way toward the
Montana side of the mountains, we arrived after a hard day’s work
at the bank of a large stream flowing into the middle fork of the
Clearwater River. As the stream to be forded was a swift and
dangerous one, and as we had as high a mountain to climb on the
other side as the one we had come down, we decided to go into
camp and wait till morning to find a practicable ford. In this deep
canyon there was no feed for the horses, and not even enough level
ground on which to set up our tent. So the horses were tied up to
the trees, supper was cooked and eaten, Ben’s “coop,” as we called
his skin house, was placed under a tree, and then each of us rolled
up in his blankets and was soon lulled to sleep by the roar of the
water over the boulders that lined the river’s bed.
 Ready for the start

We were up and ready for the start before it was fairly light in the
deep canyon, and, on account of the dangerous work ahead of us,
both in fording the river and in climbing the opposite mountain, we
determined to put Ben on a pony that could be led. We were careful,
however, to tie him up short enough to prevent any repetition of his
former antics. I then mounted my riding horse, a good sure-footed
one, and, with the lead rope of Ben’s horse in my hand, started for
the other shore. The first two-thirds of the ford was not bad, but the
last portion was deep and swift, the footing bad, and the going
dangerous. However, by heading my horse diagonally down-stream,
and thus going with the current, we succeeded in making the
opposite bank in safety and waited for Spencer and Jack to follow.
They got along equally well until near the bank on which I stood,
when Spencer’s horse slipped on one of the smooth rocks and
pitched his rider over his head into the swirling water. With a pole
which I had cut in case it should be needed I managed to pull the
water-soaked fellow out of the current, however, and when we had
seen once more to the security of the packs we started on the steep
climb ahead of us. There was not so much as an old game trail to
mark our way, and the hill was so steep that we could only make
headway by what are known as “switchbacks.” Our one desire now
was to get up to where we could find grass for the horses, and a
place level enough to pitch a tent and to unpack and give the ponies
a few days in which to rest up.
The horse on which Ben had been mounted for the day was called
Riley, and, as I have already said, we had selected him for his
steady-going qualities and his reliability in leading. But just as we
reached a particularly steep place about half-way up the mountain,
Riley suddenly stopped and threw his weight back on the lead rope,
which was lapped around the horn of my riding saddle, in such a
way that the rope parted, the horse lost his balance, and falling
backward landed, all four feet in the air, in a hole that had been left
by an upturned root. We at once tied up the rest of the horses to
prevent them from straying, and, cutting the cinch rope to Riley’s
pack, rolled him over and got him to his feet again. We then led him
to as level a spot as we could find and once more cinched on the
saddle, and, while Spencer brought the various articles that made up
the pack, I repacked the horse. All this time nobody had thought of
Ben. In the excitement of rescuing the fallen horse he had been
completely forgotten, and when Spencer lifted the pack cover, which
was the last article of the reversed pack, he called out in
consternation, “Here’s Ben, smashed as flat as a shingle.” When we
rushed to examine him we found that he still breathed, but that was
about all; and after I got the horse packed I wrapped him in my
coat, placed him in a sack, and hanging this to the horn of my riding
saddle, proceeded up the hill.
In the course of a couple of hours we reached another of those
ideal camping spots, a summit marsh, and here we unpacked the
horses, turned them loose, set up our tent, and then looked Ben
over to see if any bones were broken. His breathing seemed a little
stronger, so I put him in the sun at the foot of a large tree and in a
few minutes he staggered to his feet. We always carried a can-full of
sour dough to make bread with, and Ben was extravagantly fond of
this repulsive mixture which he considered a dainty. I now offered
him a spoonful of it, and as soon as the smell reached his nostrils he
spruced up and began to lap it from the spoon; and from that time
on his recovery was rapid. The next day he was as playful as ever
and seemed none the worse for his close call.
Spencer had a great way, when we were about camp and Ben was
not looking, of suddenly scuffling his feet on the ground and going
“Whoof-whoof!” to frighten the cub. This would either send Ben
flying up a tree or start him in a mad rush for his moose-skin house
before he realized what the noise was. But one evening after this
trick had been sprung on the cub several times, we came into camp
well after dark, tired, hungry, and not thinking of Ben; and as
Spencer passed a large tree there was a sudden and loud scuffling
on the ground at his very heels and a couple of genuine “whoof-
whoofs” that no one who had ever heard a bear could mistake.
Spencer made a wild leap to one side and was well started on a
second before he thought of Ben and realized that his pupil had
learned a new trick and had incidentally evened things up with his
master.
The acuteness of Ben’s senses was almost beyond belief. Nothing
ever succeeded in approaching our camp without his knowing it; and
this not only before we could hear a sound ourselves, but before we
could have expected even his sharp ears or sensitive nostrils to
detect anything. He would stand on his hind feet and listen, or get
behind a tree and peer out with one eye, and at such times nothing
would distract his attention from the approaching object. Moreover
whenever he had one of these spells of suspicion something
invariably appeared. It might prove to be a moose or a deer or an
elk, but something would always finally walk out into view. He was
far and away the best look-out that I ever saw. We used to amuse
ourselves by trying to surprise him on our return to camp; but, come
in as quietly as we might, and up the wind at that, we would always
find him standing behind a tree, peering around its trunk with just
one eye exposed, ready to climb in case the danger proved sufficient
to warrant it. One day after we had crossed the divide of the Bitter
Root range into Montana, where we had gone to replenish our food
supply before starting on our return trip, we camped in a canyon
through which flowed an excellent trout stream. We were still miles
from any settlement and had no idea that there was another human
being in the same county. I was lying in the shade of a large tree
with Ben, as his habit was, lying beside me with his head on my
breast, to all appearance fast asleep. Suddenly he roused, stood up
on his hind legs, and looked up the canyon. I also looked but, seeing
nothing, pulled the bear down beside me again. For a while he was
quiet, but soon stood up again and gazed uneasily up the creek. As
nothing appeared I again made him lie down; but there was plainly
something on his mind, and at last, after nearly half an hour of
these tactics, he jumped to his feet, pushed out his upper lip, and
began the blowing sound that he always made when something did
not suit him. And there, more than two hundred yards away and
wading in the middle of the creek, was a man, fishing. In some way
Ben had been aware of his approach long before he had rounded the
turn that brought him into sight of our camp.
We remained in Montana long enough to visit the town of
Missoula, lay in a supply of provisions, ship our bear-skins, buy a
small dog-chain and collar for Ben, who was getting too large for his
buck-skin thong, and rest the horses. Then, O’Brien having
determined to try his fortune in the mining camps, Spencer and I
turned our faces to the West and started back over the same three
hundred miles of trackless mountains.
It was well into September when, after many happenings but no
serious misadventures, we arrived at a small town on a branch of
the Northern Pacific Railway one hundred and twenty-five miles from
Spokane; and here we decided to ship not only our new store of
furs, but our camp outfit as well. From here on our way lay through
open farm lands, and we could find bed and board with the ranchers
as we travelled.
 Ben tries on his new chain and collar

Ben was still the same jolly fellow, but now grown so large that by
standing on his hind feet he could catch his claws in the hair cinch of
the saddle and relieve us of the trouble of lifting him to the back of
his mount. He and Jim remained the best of friends. Spencer
continued to teach the cub new tricks. Ben could now juggle not
only the ball, but any other object that was not too heavy for his
strength, and he spent many hours at the pastime. While we were
packing the baggage Ben attracted the attention of the entire
population. The children, being told that he was gentle, brought him
ripe plums and candies and he was constantly stuffed as full as he
could hold, and not unnaturally took a great fancy to the kids. They
were always ready to play with him, moreover, and his entire time at
this place was divided between eating and wrestling with the
youngsters. And when we left Ben received an ovation from the
whole community.
 Ben and Buckskin caused no end of sensations in passing through
the country. We often came across loose horses feeding along the
highway, and these nearly always wished to make our acquaintance.
They would follow Spencer and myself for a while, and then turn
back to see if the pony loitering in the rear was not more friendly.
And Buck on these occasions would hurry ahead, more than anxious
to meet them. But they never waited for an introduction. With loud
snorts and tails in the air they either shot away across the open
fields or tore madly past us up the turnpike, while Buckskin stood
looking after them in puzzled disappointment.
One day, just as we were rounding a turn in the road, we met a
farmer and his wife driving a two-horse buggy. Buckskin had just
come loping up and was only a few yards behind us, and the sight of
a bear riding a horse so pleased the farmer that he paid little
attention to his horses, who almost went crazy with fright. Buck
looked at the dancing team in amazement, and Ben was as much
interested as any one. But the woman, in the very beginning, took
sides with the farm team, and sat with terrified eyes clutching her
husband’s arm and yelling for him to be careful. Finally her fright
and cries got on his nerves, and he stopped laughing long enough to
shout “Will you shut up?” in a voice that effectually broke up the
meeting.
One night we asked for lodging at a farm run by an old lady. As I
knocked at the door of the house and proffered our request she at
once gave her consent, and directed us to the rear of the stable,
where we would find hay for our horses and where we could spread
our blankets for the night. Next morning we paid our bill, and as we
left the yard the old lady, who was at the door to see us off, called
out to know if all five of those horses were ours. I told her that they
were and asked what she meant, and she said that she had only
charged us for feed for three. She had, she explained, been so taken
up with looking at that fool bear riding a horse that two of the
horses had escaped her notice.
 At last we reached Spokane and Ben’s horseback riding came to
an end. He had covered more than a thousand miles of mountain
and valley and ridden for nearly four months. I fitted up a woodshed
for him with a door opening into a small court, where an old partly
rotted log was put to remind him of the forest. He soon became a
great favorite, and as no one was allowed to tease him he continued
to be friendly and gentle.
This shed in which Ben lived had the earth for a floor, and
adjoining it there was a carriage-house with a floor some ten or
twelve inches above the ground. One day soon after Ben was placed
in the shed I came home and found a large pile of fresh earth and a
hole leading down under the carriage-house. I could hear Ben
digging and puffing at the bottom of it, and when I called he came
out, his silky black coat covered with dirt. I had never seen him dig
before, unless it was for a root, or the time I had buried him alive to
hush his crying in the little cave in the Bitter Roots; and it was
several days before I understood what he was about. Then it came
to me that he was building himself a winter home. I have learned
since that bears in captivity by no means always show a desire to
hibernate; but Ben had the instinct thoroughly developed. And
instinct it was, pure and simple, for he had never seen a bear’s den
except the one that he left as a tiny cub on the day that his mother
was killed. He evidently regarded the work as a most serious and
important undertaking, and I watched his labors with much interest.
He devoted several hours each day to shaping his cave and at times
would break suddenly away in the very middle of a romp and hurry
to his digging. If I caught him by his short tail and dragged him out
of the hole, he would rush back to his work as soon as released. I
even enlarged the entrance so that I could crawl in and watch him
work, and on one or two occasions I undertook to help him. But,
while he would not resent this, my work did not seem to please him,
as he moved the dirt which I had dug and resettled it to suit himself.
He piled loose earth up under the floor of the carriage-house and
pushed and jammed it tight up against the boards until there was
not a crack or space left through which a draught could reach him.
The hole itself he made about four feet in diameter and about three
feet deep; and when this part of the work was finished he turned his
attention to furnishing his home. He found some cast-off clothing in
the alley near his shed and dragged it into his den under the
carriage-house. After arranging this first instalment he hurried out to
look for more, and for several evenings the furnishing of the sleeping
apartment occupied the major part of his time. Once he came back
dragging a fine cashmere shawl that he pulled off a clothesline
where one of the neighbors had hung it to air! Not until the floor of
his den was several inches deep in rags did he give up foraging and
once more return to his usual habits.
And then, one morning, when I went to the shed for kindling,
there was no Ben to greet me. The ground was buried several inches
deep in snow and quite a drift had sifted through the crack under
the door; and I saw by following Ben’s chain that it led down under
the carriage-house, and knew that he was now enjoying the
comforts that he had made ready a month before. As long as the
severe weather lasted Ben remained in his cave. But there was
nothing either mysterious or curious about his condition. Sometimes,
in the coldest weather, I would call him out and he never failed to
come. It usually took three calls to bring him however. At my first cry
of “Ben!” there would be no sound; then, at a louder “Ben!” there
would be a shaking of the chain, then quiet again; but at the third
peremptory call there would be a few puffs and snorts and out he
would come, fairly steaming from the warmth of his house. I often
tried to get him to eat at such times, but he would only smell of the
food; then he would stand up on his hind feet with his forepaws
against my shoulders, lap my face and hands with his tongue, and
crawl back to his nest. Several times I crept down into his den to
find out how he slept. He was curled up much as a dog would be
and seemed simply to be having a good nap. The amount of heat
that his body gave out was astonishing. I have thrust my hand under
him as he slept and it actually felt hot. The steam, too, that came up
through the cracks of the floor of the carriage-house not only
covered the carriage with frost but coated the whole inside of the
room.
For more than a year, or until he got so large and rough that he
broke the rockers from several chairs that he upset in his mad
gallops around the rooms, he was allowed the privilege of the house.
He used to stand up and touch the keys of the piano gently, then
draw back and listen as long as the vibration lasted. He was fond,
too, of being dragged about on his back by a rope that he held fast
in his teeth. He never tired of this sport and would get his rope and
pester you until you gave him a drag to get rid of him. He had
several playthings with which he would amuse himself for hours, and
one of these was a block of wood that had replaced the rope ball
that he had been used to juggle on his trip through the Bitter Roots.
Another was ten or twelve feet of old garden hose. This he would
seize in his teeth by the middle and shake it as a dog would shake a
snake until the ends fairly snapped. Once, when he had hold of the
hose, I put my mouth to one end and called through it. He was all
attention at once and when I called again he took the opposite end
in his paws, seated himself squarely on the ground, and held one
eye to the opening to see where the sound came from. This sitting
down to things was characteristic of him. He would never do
anything that he could sit down to until he had deliberately settled
himself in that comfortable position. A mirror was a great puzzle to
him and he never fully solved the riddle of where the other bear kept
himself. He would stand in front and look at his reflection, then try
to touch it with his paw. Finding the glass in the road, he would tip
the mirror forward and look behind it; then start in and walk several
times around it, trying to catch up with the illusive bear.
But Ben’s desire to catch the looking-glass bear was as nothing to
his determination to catch the kitchen cat. This was his supreme
ambition, and, although he never realized it, there was one occasion
on which he came within sight of success. When he was a small cub
and admitted familiarly to the house he had often chased the cat
around the kitchen until everything had been upset except the
stove; or until the cat, watching her chance, had escaped to the
woodshed to go into hiding for an hour to get her nerves quieted
down. But his final banishment from the house had established a
forced truce between them. He was not allowed in her territory, and
she took care not to trespass on his. One day, however, when Ben
was nearly two years old, he was, for some reason or other, allowed
to come into the kitchen for a few moments. And as he entered the
room he spied the cat. Instantly his forgotten dreams returned; and
when pussy, her tail fluffed up to four times its rightful size, took
refuge in the kitchen pantry, Ben very deliberately crossed the
kitchen and blocked the pantry door. For a few seconds the two
glared at each other and then, with a spit and a yowl, the cat made
a mad dash around the pantry shelves and, amid the din of falling
stew pans, vaulted clear over the bear’s head and crouched by the
wood box behind the stove. Now Ben, when a small cub, had been
used to going under that stove, and he saw no reason for not taking
the same old route. His head went under all right, but for an instant
the massive shoulders stuck. Then the powerful hind feet were
gathered under him, there was a ripping of linoleum as the sharp
nails tore through it, the hind legs straightened out, and the stove
went over with a mighty crash. A dozen feet of stove pipe came
tumbling down, the room was filled with smoke, and from
underneath the wreck a frightened cat leaped through the door
closely followed by a disappointed bear. This was Ben’s last visit
inside the house.
As he grew older and larger, he remained as kindly and good-
natured as ever. He would still tumble about with Jim, although the
dog could now stand very little of this kind of play; for Ben did not
know how strong and rough he was. When, in playing with the boys
in back lots, he got warmed up, he would go flying over to a barrel
kept full of water for the horses and, climbing upon the rim, would
let his hinder parts down into the cool water, turn round up to his
chin for a few minutes, and then climb out and take after one of the
spectators. When he caught up with any one he would never touch
them, but would at once turn and expect them to chase him. Then,
when about to be caught, he would go snorting up a telegraph pole.
I frequently took him walking in the town, but always on a chain to
keep him from chasing everybody. On these occasions if he heard
any unfamiliar noise he would clutch the chain close up to his collar
and sit down. After listening awhile, if he decided that it was safe to
proceed, he would drop the chain and our walk would continue. But
if the sound didn’t please him he would start for his woodshed on
the jump, and after he got to weigh a hundred pounds or more I
invariably went with him—if I hung onto the chain.

A stop for a drink of water

He still juggled his block, but now he had a new one that was
more suited to his size and strength, a piece of log a foot or more in
diameter and sixteen to eighteen inches in length. This stick he kept
for a couple of years and juggled so much that his claws wore
hollows in the ends of it.
 When Ben was four years old business compelled me to move to
the town of Missoula, Montana. I could not bear to part with my pet,
so shipped him by express to the town he had visited on horseback
as a tiny cub. Now, however, the express company charged me for
transportation on three hundred and thirty-two pounds of bear meat.
It was fall when we moved to Missoula, and Ben was given a small
room in one end of a woodshed and, as he had no cave to sleep in, I
had the room filled with shavings. Ben’s arrival was quite an event
and roused much interest among the younger element of the town;
which at first was shown by about forty boys attacking him with
sticks and anything that they could hurl at him or punch him with. I
showed them, however, how gentle and playful he was; got some of
the boys to wrestle with him; told them that if they continued this
rough treatment to which Ben was not used I would be compelled to
lock him up; and, having had some experience with boys as well as
with bears, forbore to tell them what I proposed to do to those who
did not listen to me. This explanation and Ben’s evident readiness to
make friends quite changed the general attitude toward him, but
there were a few who refused to see things from my point of view.
There was a man in Missoula at that time, Urlin by name, who was,
or thought he was, the whole show. He was a sort of incipient
“boss”; was at the head of the city council, and took it upon himself
to see that things in general were run according to his ideas. He had
two red-headed sons who aspired to occupy a similar position
among the boys, and these had been the ringleaders of the mob
that had attacked Ben, and were among the few who either could
not or would not abandon the tactics of teasing and persecution. So,
as there was no lock on Ben’s shed, but only a wooden button, and
as it was already late in the fall, I nailed this fast and left the bear in
his bed of shavings. That same afternoon, happening to look out of
the window of the shop in which I was working, I saw people
hurrying down the street and went to the door to find out what the
excitement was about. Two blocks away, in front of my house, a
mob was gathering, and I hurried home to find most of the women
of the neighborhood wringing their hands and calling down all kinds
of curses on my head.
 At first I could make neither head nor tail of the clamor, but finally
gathered that that bloodthirsty, savage, and unspeakable bear of
mine had killed a boy; and upon asking to see the victim was told
that the remains had been taken to a neighbor’s house and a doctor
summoned. This was scarcely pleasant news and not calculated to
make me popular in my new home; but, knowing that whatever had
happened Ben had not taken the offensive without ample cause, I
unchained him and put him into the cellar of my house, well out of
harm’s way, before looking further into the matter. Then I went over
to the temporary morgue and found the corpse (needless to say it
was one of the Urlin boys) sitting up on the kitchen floor holding a
sort of an impromptu reception and, with the exception of Ben, the
least excited of any one concerned. I could not help admiring the
youngster’s pluck, for he was an awful sight. From his feet to his
knees his legs were lacerated and his clothing torn into shreds; and
the top of his head—redder by far than ever nature had intended—
was a bloody horror. As soon as I laid eyes on him I guessed what
had happened.
It developed that the two Urlin boys had broken open the door of
the shed and gone in to wrestle with the bear. Ben was willing, as he
always was, and a lively match was soon on; whereupon, seeing that
the bear did not harm the two already in the room, another of the
boys joined the scuffle. Then one of them got on the bear’s back.
This was a new one on Ben, but he took kindly to the idea and was
soon galloping around the little room with his rider. Then another
boy climbed on and Ben carried the two of them at the same mad
pace. Then the third boy got aboard and round they all went, much
to the delight of themselves and their cheering audience in the
doorway. But even Ben’s muscles of steel had their limit of
endurance, and after a few circles of the room with the three riders
he suddenly stopped and rolled over on his back. And now an
amazing thing happened. Of the three boys, suddenly tumbled
helter-skelter from their seats, one happened to fall upon the
upturned paws of the bear; and Ben, who for years had juggled rope
balls, cord sticks, and miniature logs, instantly undertook to give an
exhibition with his new implement. Gathering the badly frightened
boy into position, the bear set him whirling. His clothing from his
shoe tops to his knees was soon ripped to shreds and his legs torn
and bleeding; his scalp was lacerated by the sharp claws until the
blood flew in showers; his cries rose to shrieks and sank again to
moans; but the bear, unmoved, kept up the perfect rhythm of his
strokes. Finally the terrified lookers-on in the doorway, realizing that
something had to be done if their leader was not to be twirled to
death before their eyes, tore a rail from the fence and with a few
pokes in Ben’s side induced him to drop the boy, who was then
dragged out apparently more dead than alive.
Dr. Buckley, of the Northern Pacific Railway Hospital, carried young
Urlin to his office, shaved his head, took seventy-six stitches in his
scalp, and put rolls of surgical plaster on his shins. So square and
true had Ben juggled him that not a scratch was found on his face or
on any part of his body between the top of his head and his knees.
He eventually came out of the hospital no worse for his ordeal, but I
doubt if he ever again undertook to ride a bear.
For a while there was much curiosity in town as to what old man
Urlin would do in the matter, and many prophecies and warnings
reached me. But for some days I heard nothing from him. Then he
called on me and asked, very politely, if I had killed the bear. When I
told him that Ben was well and would in all natural probability live
for twenty years or so, the old fellow threw diplomacy to the winds
and fumed and threatened like a madman. But he calmed down in
the end; especially after he was informed by his lawyers that, as his
boys had forcibly broken into my shed, it was he himself that could
be called to legal account. And so the matter was dropped.
But Ben was now grown so large that none but myself cared to
wait on him; and when, the next spring, I found that I was going to
be away in the mountains all summer, I began looking about for
some way of getting him a good home. Nothing in the world would
have induced me to have him killed, and I did not like to turn him
loose in the hills for some trapper to catch or poison. Moreover I
doubted his ability, after so sheltered a life, to shift for himself in the
wilderness. But this was a problem in which the “don’t’s” were more
easily discovered than the “do’s.” Weeks slipped by, I was leaving in
a short time, no solution had offered, and I was at my wits’ end. And
then a travelling circus came to town. I sought out the manager, told
him Ben’s story, obtained his promise of kind treatment and good
care for my pet and, with genuine heartache, presented the fine
animal to him. That was sixteen years ago and I have never heard of
Ben since. I often wonder if he’s still alive and if he’d know me. But
of the last I have not a single doubt.
 THE BLACK BEAR
Its Distribution and Habits