162 TRUE BEAR STORIES.

last! He’s got him treed, he’s got him
treed!” .

Out of breath from running, my father
sat down at the foot of the steep wall of
the canyon below Monneban and we boys
clambered on up the grassy slope like
goats.

Meantime, Monnehan kept shouting
wildly and fearfully as before. Such lungs
as Monnehan had! A mighty hunter was
Monnehan. At last we got on the ridge up
among the scattering and storm-bent and
low-boughed oaks; breathless and nearly
dead from exhaustion.

“Here, byes, here!’

We looked up the hill a little ahead of
us from where the voice came, and there,
straddled across the leaning bough of a
broad oak tree hung Monnehan, the mighty
hunter. His hat was on the ground under-
neath him, his club was still in his daring
hand, but his gun was in the grass a hun-
dred yards away.

“Here, boys, right up here. Come up