There had been 10 of us when the hunt started, but age and some of the steepest, roughest country I had ever seen were taking their toll. Now there was only me. I was the youngest in our group by at least a decade and that, along with an overdose of adrenaline, kept me within earshot of the pack of hounds.

If the size of its track meant anything, the bear we were after was bigger than anything any of us had ever seen. I had long ago used up a hearty breakfast and was tiring fast, but so was the bear--or so I figured. It had already made a couple of stands, the first violent encounter with its relentless pursuers marked by a big chunk of mountainside torn to shreds. The second time the bear turned to face its tormentors, things got evened up a bit by the death of a hound that ventured too close to the bear's deadly reach.

The strike dog had led off on the hot trail just after daybreak, and for most of the day I had been hot-footing over hill and dale as fast as terribly steep terrain covered by a jungle of laurel would allow. At times the pack managed to get beyond earshot, but I knew the country well and was able to stay on track.

Only a few weeks before I had pulled a few trout from the rushing stream I now stood beside. Its cascading waters almost drowned out the music made by the five remaining Plotts, but I could hear well enough to know they had our quarry at bay.

If the bear had continued on for another quarter of a mile and crossed Green River, it might have shaken us, but it made the mistake of doubling back up Canebreak Creek--a ravine no more than a dozen feet wide, flanked by steep slippery banks up to 20 feet high on either side and blocked at its head by a waterfall. It was there beside the waterfall that the bear decided to make its last stand.

When I got there the great beast was perched on a moss-covered rock outcropping with the excited hounds dancing at its feet. The roar of the waterfall covered any sound I made as I moved in for a shot. A huge chestnut tree, felled by blight many years before, made a perfect rest for my Marlin 336 lever action. From 20 short paces away there was no way I could miss.

Occasionally one of the hounds would back off for a running start and attempt to scale the rock face for a nip at the bear, but all such efforts fell short by inches. Other than taking a roundhouse swing at any hound that tried the leap, and snapping its teeth to intimidate the others, the bear seemed bored by it all. But it eventually grew restless and started to glance downstream, and suddenly it dawned on me that the only way out for the bear was over me, and the smart thing to do was end the hunt before that happened.

I eased back the hammer and plastered the front sight's shiny gold bead behind the shoulder of the bear and squeezed the trigger. As the bear whirled to face me, I planted a second 200-grain bullet square in the middle of the patch of white on its chest. I doubt if my two shots spanned more than a couple of seconds, certainly less time than it takes to tell about it. The bear scattered the hounds one last time as its limp body slid from the outcropping of rock and into the creek. The water beneath my feet slowly turned from crystal clear to muddy red. I should have been happy, but instead I was sad to see the toughest hunt of a lifetime come to an end.