Now bears, and especially young bears, have a way of fighting that is
all their own. It reminds one of a hair-pulling contest between two
well-matched ladies. There are no rules to the game--absolutely none.
As Pete and Neewa clinched, their hind legs began to do the fighting,
and the fur began to fly. Pete, being already on his back--a
first-class battling position for a bear--would have possessed an
advantage had it not been for Neewa's ferocious hold at his throat. As
it was, Neewa sank his fangs in to their full length, and scrubbed away
for dear life with his sharp hind claws. Miki drew nearer at sight of
the flying fur, his soul filled with joy. Then Pete got one leg into
action, and then the other, and Miki's jaws came together with a sudden
click. Over and over the two fighters rolled, Neewa holding to his
throat-grip, and not a squeal or a grunt came from either of them.
Pebbles and dirt flew along with hair and fur. Stones rolled with a
clatter down the coulee. The very air trembled with the thrill of
combat. In Miki's attitude of tense waiting there was something now of
suspicious anxiety. With eight furry legs scratching and tearing
furiously, and the two fighters rolling and twisting and contorting
themselves like a pair of windmills gone mad, it was almost impossible
for Miki to tell who was getting the worst of it--Neewa or Pete; at
least he was in doubt for a matter of three or four minutes.