As it is at all times unwise as well as disagreeable to involve a reader in needless mystery, we may as well explain here that there would have been no mystery at all in Little Tim’s prolonged absence from his fortress, if it had not been that he was aware of the intended visit of his chum and brother-in-law, Whitewing, and his old friend the pale-faced missionary, and that he had promised to return on the evening of the day on which he set off to hunt or on the following morning at latest.

Moreover, Little Tim was a man of his word, having never within the memory of his oldest friend been known to break it.  Thus it came to pass that when three days had passed away, and the sturdy little hunter failed to return, Big Tim and his bride first became surprised and then anxious.  The attack on the hut, however, and the events which we have just related, prevented the son from going out in search of the father; but now that the Blackfeet had been effectually repulsed and the fortress relieved by the arrival of Whitewing’s party, it was resolved that they should organise a search for the absentee without an hour’s delay.

“Leetil Tim,” said Whitewing decisively, when he was told of his old friend’s unaccountable absence, “must be found.”

“So say I,” returned Big Tim.  “I hope the Blackfoot reptiles haven’t got him.  Mayhap he has cut himself with his hatchet.  Anyhow, we must go at once.  You won’t mind our leaving you for a bit?” he added, turning to the missionary; “we will leave enough o’ redskins to guard you, and my soft one will see to it that you are comfortable.”

“Think not of me,” replied the preacher.  “All will go well, I feel assured.”

Still further to guard the reader from supposing that there is any mystery connected with the missionary’s name or Little Tim’s surname, we think it well to state at once that there is absolutely none.  In those outlandish regions, and among that primitive people, the forming of names by the mere combination of unmeaning syllables found small favour.  They named people according to some striking quality or characteristic.  Hence our missionary had been long known among the red men of the West as the Preacher, and, being quite satisfied with that name, he accepted it without making any attempt to bamboozle the children of the woods and prairies with his real name, which was-and is-a matter of no importance whatever.  Tim likewise, being short of stature, though very much the reverse of weak or diminutive, had accepted the name of “Little Tim” with a good grace, and made mention of no other; his son naturally becoming “Big Tim” when he outgrew his father.

A search expedition having been quickly organised, it left the little fortress at once, and defiled into the thick woods, led by Whitewing and Big Tim.

In order that the reader may fully understand the cause of Little Tim’s absence, we will take the liberty of pushing on in advance of the search party, and explain a few matters as we go.

It has already been shown that our little hunter possessed a natural ingenuity of mind.  This quality had, indeed, been noticeable when he was a boy, but it did not develop largely till he became a man.  As he grew older his natural ingenuity seemed to become increasingly active, until his thirst for improving on mechanical contrivances and devising something new became almost a passion.  Hence he was perpetually occupied in scheming to improve-as he was wont to say-the material condition of the human race, as well as the mental.

Among other things, he improved the traps of his Indian friends, and also their dwellings.  He invented new traps, and, as we have seen, new methods of defending dwellings, as well as of escaping when defence failed.  His name, of course, became well known in the Indian country, and as some of his contrivances proved to be eminently useful, he was regarded far and near as a great medicine-man, who could do whatever he set his mind to.  Without laying claim to such unlimited powers, Little Tim was quite content to leave the question of his capacity to scheme and invent as much a matter of uncertainty in the minds of his red friends as it was in his own mind.

One day there came to the Indian village, in which he dwelt at the time with his still pretty though matronly wife Brighteyes, one of the agents of a man whose business it was to collect wild animals for the menageries of the United States and elsewhere.  Probably this man was an ancestor of Barnum, for he possessed a mind which seemed to be capable of conceiving anything and sticking at nothing.  He found a man quite after his own heart when he discovered Little Tim.

“I want a grizzly b’ar,” he said, on being introduced to the hunter.

“There’s plenty of ’em in these parts,” said Tim, who was whittling a piece of wood at the time.

“But I want a full-grown old ’un,” said the agent.

“Well,” remarked Tim, looking up with an inquiring glance for a moment, “I should say there’s some thousands, more or less, roamin’ about the Rockies, in all stages of oldness-from experienced mammas to great-grandmothers, to say nothin’ o’ the old gentlemen; but you’ll find most of ’em powerful sly an’ uncommon hard to kill.”

“But I don’t want to kill ’em; I want one of ’em alive,” said the agent.

At this Little Tim stopped whittling the bit of stick, and looked hard at the man.

“You wants to catch one alive?” he repeated.

“Yes, that’s what’s the matter with me exactly.  I want it for a show, an’ I’m prepared to give a good price for a big one.”

“How much?” asked the hunter.

The stranger bent down and whispered in his ear.  Little Tim raised his eyebrows a little, and resumed whittling.

“But,” said he, after a few moments’ vigorous knife-work, “what if I should try, an’ fail?”

“Then you get nothing.”

“Won’t do,” returned the little hunter, with a slow shake of the head.  “I’m game to tackle difficulties for love or money, but not for nothin’.  You’ll have to go to another shop, stranger.”

“Well, what will you try it for?” asked the agent, who was unwilling to lose his man.

“For quarter o’ the sum down, to be kep’ whether I succeed or fail, the balance to be paid when I hand over the goods.”

“Well, stranger,” returned the agent, with a grim smile, “I don’t mind if I agree to that.  You seem an honest man.”

“Sorry I can’t return the compliment,” said Little Tim, holding out his hand.  “So cash down, if you please.”

The agent laughed, but pulled out a huge leathern bag, and paid the stipulated sum in good undeniable silver dollars.

The hunter at once made preparation for his enterprise.  Meanwhile the agent took up his abode in the Indian village to await the result.

After a night of profound meditation in the solitude of his wigwam, Little Tim set to work and cut up several fresh buffalo hides into long and strong lines with which he made a net of enormous mesh and strength.  He arranged it in such a way, with a line run round the circumference, that he could draw it together like a purse.  With this gigantic affair on his shoulder, he set off one morning at daybreak into the mountains.  He met the agent, who was an early riser, on the threshold of the village.

“What! goin’ out alone, Little Tim?” he said.

“Yes; b’ars don’t like company, as a rule.”

“Don’t you think I might help you a bit?”

“No, I don’t.  If you stop where you are, I’ll very likely bring the b’ar home to ’ee.  If you go with me, it’s more than likely the b’ar will take you home to her small family!”

“Well, well, have it your own way,” returned the agent, laughing.

“I always do,” replied the hunter, with a grin.

Proceeding a day’s journey into the mountains, our adventurous hunter discovered the track of a bear, which must, he thought be an uncommonly large one.  Selecting a convenient tree, he stuck four slender poles into the ground, under one of its largest branches.  Over these he spread his net, arranging the closing rope-or what we may term the purse-string-in such a way that he could pass it over the branch of the tree referred to.  This done, he placed a large junk of buffalo-meat directly under the net, and pegged it to the ground.

Thereafter Little Tim ascended the tree, crept out on the large limb until he reached the spot where the line had been thrown over it, directly above his net.  There, seating himself comfortably among the branches, he proceeded to sup and enjoy himself, despite the unsavoury smell that arose from the half-decayed buffalo-meat below.

The limb of the tree was so large and suitable that while a fork of it was wide enough to serve for a table, a branch which grew upwards formed a lean to the hunter’s back, and another branch, doubling round most conveniently, formed a rest for his right elbow.  At the same time an abrupt curl in the same branch constituted a rest for his gun.  Thus he reclined in a natural one-armed rustic chair, with his weapons handy, and a good supper before him.

“What could a man wish more?” he muttered to himself, with a contented expression of face, as he fixed a square piece of birch-bark in the fork of the branch, and on this platter arranged his food, commenting thereon as he proceeded:  “Roast prairie hen.  Capital grub, with a bit o’ salt pork, though rather dry an’ woodeny-like by itself.  Buffalo rib.  Nothin’ better, hot or cold, except marrow-bones; but then, you see, marrow-bones ain’t just parfection unless hot, an’ this is bound to be a cold supper.  Hunk o’ pemmican.  A safe stand-by at all times.  Don’t need no cookin’, an’ a just proportion o’ fat to lean, but doesn’t do without appetite to make it go down.  Let me be thankful I’ve got that, anyhow.”

At this point Little Tim thought it expedient to make the line of his net fast to this limb of the tree.  After doing so, he examined the priming of his gun, made a few other needful arrangements, and then gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour, smiling benignly to the moon, which happened to creep out from behind a mountain peak at the time, as if on purpose to irradiate the scene.

“It has always seemed to me,” muttered the hunter, as well as a large mouthful of the prairie hen would permit-for he was fond of muttering his thoughts when alone; it felt more sociable, you see, than merely thinking them-“It has always seemed to me that contentment is a grand thing for the human race.  Pity we hasn’t all got it!”

Inserting at this point a mass of the hunk, which proved a little too large for muttering purposes, he paused until the road was partially cleared, and then went on-“Of course I don’t mean that lazy sort o’ contentment that makes a man feel easy an’ comfortable, an’ quite indifferent to the woes an’ worries of other men so long as his own bread-basket is stuffed full.  No, no.  I means that sort o’ contentment that makes a man feel happy though he hasn’t got champagne an’ taters, pigeon-pie, lobscouse, plum-duff, mustard an’ jam at every blow-out; that sort o’ contentment that takes things as they come, an’ enjoys ’em without grumpin’ an’ growlin’ ‘cause he hasn’t got somethin’ else.”

Another hunk here stopping the way, a somewhat longer silence ensued, which would probably have been broken as before by the outpouring of some sage reflections, but for a slight sound which caused the hunter to become what we may style a human petrifaction, with a half-chewed morsel in its open jaws, and its eyes glaring.

A few seconds more, and the sound of breaking twigs gave evidence that a visitor drew near.  Little Tim bolted the unchewed morsel, hastily sheathed his hunting-knife, laid one hand on the end of his line, and waited.

He had not to wait long, for out of the woods there sauntered a grizzly bear of such proportions that the hunter at first thought the moonlight must have deceived him.

“Sartinly it’s the biggest that I’ve ever clapped eyes on,” he thought but he did not speak or move.  So anxious was he not to scare the animal, that he hardly breathed.

Bruin seemed to entertain suspicions of some sort, for he sniffed the tainted air once or twice, and looked inquiringly round.  Coming to the conclusion, apparently, that his suspicions were groundless, he walked straight up to the lump of buffalo-meat and sniffed it.  Not being particular, he tried it with his tongue.

“Good!” said the bear-at least if he did not say so, he must have thought so, for next moment he grasped it with his teeth.  Finding it tethered hard and fast, he gathered himself together for the purpose of exercising main force.

Now was Little Tim’s opportunity.  Slipping a cord by which the net was suspended to the four stakes, he caused it to descend like a curtain over the bear.  It acted most successfully, insomuch that the animal was completely enveloped.

Surprised, but obviously not alarmed, Bruin shook his head, sniffed a little, and pawed the part of the net in front of him.  The hunter wasted no time.  Seeing that the net was all right, he pulled with all his might on the main rope, which partly drew the circumference of the net together.  Finding his feet slightly trammelled, the grizzly tried to move off, but of course trod on the net, tripped, and rolled over.  In so doing he caught sight of the hunter, who was now enabled to close the mouth of the net-purse completely.

Being by that time convinced, apparently, that he was the victim of foul play, the bear lost his temper, and tried to rise.  He tripped as before, came down heavily on his side, and hit the back of his head against a stone.  This threw him into a violent rage, and he began to bounce.

At all times bouncing is ineffectual and silly, even in a grizzly bear.  The only result was that he bruised his head and nose, tumbled among stones and stumps, and strained the rope so powerfully that the limb of the tree to which it was attached was violently shaken, and Little Tim was obliged to hold on to avoid being shaken off.

Experience teaches bears as well as fools.  On discovering that it was useless to bounce, he sat down in a disconsolate manner, poked as much as he could of his nose through one of the meshes, and sniggered at Little Tim, who during these outbursts was naturally in a state of great excitement.  Then the bear went to work leisurely to gnaw the mesh close to his mouth.

The hunter was not prepared for this.  He had counted on the creature struggling with its net till it was in a state of complete exhaustion, when, by means of additional ropes, it could be so wound round and entangled in every limb as to be quite incapable of motion.  In this condition it might be slung to a long pole and carried by a sufficient number of men to the small, but immensely strong, cage on wheels which the agent had brought with him.

Not only was there the danger of the bear breaking loose and escaping, or rendering it necessary that he should be shot, but there was another risk which Little Tim had failed at first to note.  The scene on which he had decided to play out his little game was on the gentle slope of a hill, which terminated in a precipice of considerable height, and each time the bear struggled and rolled over in his network purse, he naturally gravitated towards the precipice, over which he was certain to go if the rope which held him to the tree should snap.

The hunter had just become thoroughly alive to this danger when, with a tremendous struggle, the bear burst two of the meshes in rear, and his hind-quarters were free.

Little Tim seized his gun, feeling that the crisis had come.  He was loath to destroy the creature, and hesitated.  Instead of backing out of his prison, as he might easily have done, the bear made use of his free hind legs to make a magnificent bound forward.  He was checked, of course, by the rope, but Tim had miscalculated the strength of his materials.  A much stronger rope would have broken under the tremendous strain.  The line parted like a piece of twine, and the bear, rolling head over heels down the slope, bounded over the precipice, and went hurling out into space like a mighty football!

There was silence for a few seconds, then a simultaneous thud and bursting cry that was eminently suggestive.

“H’m!  It’s all over,” sighed Little Tim, as he slid down the branch to the ground.

And so it was.  The bear was effectually killed, and the poor hunter had to return to the Indian village crestfallen.

“But hold on, stranger,” he said, on meeting the agent; “don’t you give way to despair.  I said there was lots of ’em in these parts.  You come with me up to a hut my son’s got in the mountains, an’ I’ll circumvent a b’ar for you yet.  You can’t take the cart quite up to the hut but you can git near enough, at a place where there’s a Injin’ friend o’ mine as’ll take care of ye.”

The agent agreed, and thus it came to pass that at the time of which we now write, Little Tim was doing his best to catch a live bear, but, not liking to be laughed at even by his son in the event of failure, he had led him and his bride to suppose that he had merely gone out hunting in the usual way.

It was on this expedition that Little Tim had set forth when Whitewing was expected to arrive at Tim’s Folly-as the little hut or fortress had come to be named-and it was the anxiety of his friends and kindred at his prolonged absence which resulted, as we have seen, in the formation and departure of a search expedition.