One of our local historical “legends” was a man named “Bear George” McClellan. He lived not far from my house which means in his written stories, I can recognize many of the places he talks about. I have copies of some of the articles he wrote for popular magazines of his day. Some stories seem to have been bound together in some sort of book owned by Mrs. J. H. Tully, of another local pioneering family. Since Bear George died 88 years ago, I believe these stories are all out in the public domain since the 75 year limit has been reached. If you are sensitive to the wording of the days in which he lived, or if you do not care for hunting stories, or if you don’t appreciate a wry story teller, you may want to avoid these tales of Wyoming in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. It was still a wild and wooly place and Bear George led an adventurous life. Please, let me introduce Bear George McClellan.
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I was riding at a lope on the trail, following a hog back alongside of a deep, rough canyon, when the trail suddenly turned down into it. I dismounted, tied the horse, called in all the dogs, and started down through the fallen timber and jack pines on foot. I had not gone far when I came to where the bears had lain down, but had gone again. When the dogs came to this place, they raised their bristles and growled. Some of the younger ones commenced to bark furiously. The trail was evidently getting too warm for them. When I got them quieted, I started on.
One of the old dogs kept ahead on the trail, and the others followed. At the foot of the hill the trail turned down the canyon. Here the snow was deeper and the going was better.
All at once the dogs made a break through the timber, and I heard Doll say,
”Look out, George; here they come.” I looked in the direction the dogs had gone, and in a few seconds here they came as if shot out of one of Oregon’s big guns, with four silver tips in hot pursuit. The dogs seemed to be looking for a better country to fight in than the down timber. They came up within about 40 yards of me, struck a little opening, turned, lined up for business and waited for the herd to step into the ring.
The bunch came up, growling fiercely, but would not follow into the open ground. When they stopped the dogs began to bark furiously, but would not charge into the brush. Both sides were bluffing. Both were looking for trouble, but neither seemed anxious to find it. I was now within 35 or 40 yards of the bears, but waited until I could get a good shot at the big old brute that was leading the fight. I was afraid to take a chance shot as that would give them my location, and they were between me and the open ground.
Finally the old bear made a lunge at a dog and came out in clear view for an instant, with her back towards me. I fired at her spine, and had the satisfaction of seeing her go down. She started to drag herself back into the brush, when she turned broadside and another lucky shot finished her.
I then began to look for the other old one, but saw a cub that was trying hard to get in among the dogs. I let him have it. Then I went to shooting whenever I could see a bear, and the fun grew fast and furious; bear roaring, dogs barking, and the little Savage cracking spitefully made lively music.
(to be continued)
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This reminds me of the serials in the old “Saturday Evening Post” and I can hear everyone wondering what that was. It was a magazine that had stories, some of them fiction, longer ones serialized, and covers often paintings by Norman Rockwell. I loved it and my mother used to hide it from me until I did my homework.
Anyone else remember it?