Summary

Portrait of Harry Castlemon Harry Castlemon The Camp in the Foot-Hills; or…

While Oscar was running his eye over the flock, trying to make a selection, the big-horns ranged themselves in a half-circle on the edge of the plateau, and snorted and stamped their feet while they watched the wolves at their repast.
The fierce animals evidently did not like the looks of things at all, for they stopped their quarrelling among themselves; and, keeping one eye on the sheep, growled savagely at them, while they made all haste to finish what was left of their breakfast.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Harry Castlemon Harry Castlemon The Camp in the Foot-Hills; or…

But instead of acting upon it he did something else—something that excited Big Thompson’s unqualified admiration, and caused Oscar himself the most unbounded astonishment whenever he thought of it afterward.
He drew his gun to his shoulder, and the solid rock beside which he stood was not steadier than the muzzle of that weapon.
Taking a quick aim at the butt of the bear’s ear, near the place where the spine joins the base of the skull, he pressed the trigger, and the enraged animal fell as if he had been struck by lightning.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Harry Castlemon Harry Castlemon The Camp in the Foot-Hills; or…

Fitch,” said the colonel, “Lish, the Wolfer, has been in Julesburg. How long ago was it you met him?” he added, turning to Oscar.
“About two hours, I should say.”
“Well, he has had plenty of time to get drunk. Go and find him, Mr. Fitch, and listen to what he has to say. When he is in his cups, he is like an Indian in the war-dance—much given to boasting of his valorous deeds.
Source: Gutenberg

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