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The following was Published by The SMITHVILLE REVIEW, September 9, 1948.

This is being used with the permission of The SMITHVILLE REVIEW.



LAST BEAR FIGHT A RUGGED BATTLE


When this earth was a new and plastic, and began its revolution, a part sloughed off from the great Appalacian Chain, and lodged on the eastern edge of the Middle Tennessee Valley, where it stands today, one of the grandest Natural objects in Tennessee or any other state, and is known as Short Mountain.

It can be seen from all points on the western edge of the Cumberland Mountains, from a great part of Middle Tennessee, North Carolina, Alabama and Southern Kentucky, looking up about 2,000 feet.

Upon that mountain, about 1831 Bruin stood, and looking across the gulches of Dry Creek and Smiths Fork, like Moses on Pisgah's top, viewing the promised land, the clouster or romantic, fertile Dismal Hills one to three miles north of your historic village.

But unlike Moses, Bruin was impelled thitherward by his love for swine's flesh, nuts, berries and hogs, a bear's paradise.

Soon one morning, a pioneer woman went up the hill to feed some pigs. Arriving at the beds, the pigs were gone, and she heard a fearful, sonorous growl and looking about she saw what she took to be an immense black dog with its paws on the log between them and grinning at her with teriffic pearly white teeth as large and long as her fingers.

True as steel, she immediately made fight, and dashed her slop bucket in the monster's face, then rapidly descended the hill and reported the great black dog that had eaten nearly all the hogs on the hill.

Daniel Scott, Solomon Scott and others at once suspected that it was a bear; and soon the cry of "A Bear! A Bear!" Resounded from hilltop to valley, all among the hills, and the world around was in arms.

The hardy ever stirling and almost ubiquitous Scotts, Bennets and Yeargins and their neighbors swarmed to the coming fight, and Bruin was forced from his lair. He came with a lunge and a roar recalling "Greek meets Greek". Soon the keen crack of the rifle, the deep-mouthed baying of Bull and Tige and the inspiring soprano of old Sing was heard mingling with Burin's defiant roar as he flung from a bear's loving embrace to dogs death, each and every dog that came within hug.

The fight waxed hotter and hotter as the combatants rolled and tumbled and fought, down the hollows and across Dismal, across Smith's Fork; along the line of battle coming in Shakespeare's Immortal Pack, Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart mingling their voices in the grand diapason of war.

But greater, grander, sweeter than all were the voices and exploits of those brave women along that ensanguined field.

True to her mother's instincts, she was then as ever, ready to do or die in defense of her greatest treasures and hustled the sweet little bright eyed urchins under the bed and behind doors, and standing at the door of each hut, broom in hand, resolved deeds that put to shame the much vaunted courage of the Spartan Mother.

On raged the battle, across the Robinson Bottom and up and on the dividing ridge between Smith's Fork and Dry Creek, high in air.

From terrible uproar, the cowardly flew slanting and cawing right and left, the fierce eagle circling above, screaming his approval and exultant joy at a scene of carnage so congenial to his nature. Bruin all along the line, strewing the way with the corpses of his assailants, and challenging the admiration of all his courage and tact.

As a last resort against constantly accumulating enemies, both in rear and in front, the heroic old bear returned to a cave in and near the base of the ridge on the southside; his bear instinct teaching him to force his enemies to attack him in front.

But neither man nor dog courage could there be brought up to that point. The nearest any man came to being Israel Putman was Uncle Sam Wilson, who, swing down from a sapling until he could see the bear in the cave, held his celebrated rifle, "Old Betsy", in one hand and fired the fatal shot.

Bruin came, rolling and roaring out and down to the edge of the bottom. He was instantly covered by the dogs. Even then, in the very throes of death, true to all animal life, he fought for his, throwing his assailants right and left strewing the ground with their dead or crippled bodies. The men looked on, and to their credit, be it said, they admired true bearhood too much to shoot again while her was dying. And there Bruin lay prone and dead, the last monarch bear of DeKalb County.

Those brave hunters, the ancestors of many good men and women, boys and girls, down there and elsewhere, to prove their love and admiration for the great 500 pound bear, divided him among themselves and each taking his part home, ate him in pleasant remembrances of his good quality.

When you as readers are traveling from Liberty to Smithville and pass beautiful Eureka Academy about 100 yards or so, look north across the Stanford bottom and up a short hollow, and near the edge of the bottom you will see the cane in front of which ended the last bear fight in DeKalb County.


Note: The Solomon Scott mentioned was my greatgreat Grandfather. Daniel was his brother. Athol K. Foster


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