That night Langdon and Bruce made their new plans, while Metoosin sat
aloof, smoking in stolid silence, and gazing now and then at Langdon as if
he could not yet bring himself to the point of believing what had happened
that afternoon. Thereafter through many moons Metoosin would never forget
to relate to his children and his grandchildren and his friends of the
tepee tribes how he had once hunted with a white man who had shot his own
dogs to save the life of a grizzly bear. Langdon was no longer the same old
Langdon to him, and after this hunt Metoosin knew that he would never hunt
with him again. For Langdon was _keskwao_ now. Something had gone wrong in
his head. The Great Spirit had taken away his heart and had given it to a
grizzly bear, and over his pipe Metoosin watched him cautiously. This
suspicion was confirmed when he saw Bruce and Langdon making a cage out of
a cowhide pannier and realized that the cub was to accompany them on their
long journey. There was no doubt in his mind now. Langdon was "queer," and
to an Indian that sort of queerness boded no good to man.
The next morning at sunrise the outfit was ready for its long trail into
the northland. Bruce and Langdon led the way up the slope and over the
divide into the valley where they had first encountered Thor, the train
filing picturesquely behind them, with Metoosin bringing up the rear. In
his cowhide pannier rode Muskwa.
Langdon was satisfied and happy.
"It was the best hunt of my life," he said to Bruce. "I'll never be sorry
we let him live."
"You're the doctor," said Bruce rather irreverently. "If I had my way about
it his hide would be back there on Dishpan. Almost any tourist down on the
line of rail would jump for it at a hundred dollars."
"He's worth several thousand to me alive," replied Langdon, with which
enigmatic retort he dropped behind to see how Muskwa was riding.
The cub was rolling and pitching about in his pannier like a raw amateur
in a howdab on an elephant's back, and after contemplating him for a few
moments Langdon caught up with Bruce again.
Half a dozen times during the next two or three hours he visited Muskwa,
and each time that he returned to Bruce he was quieter, as if debating
something with himself.
It was nine o'clock when they came to what was undoubtedly the end of
Thor's valley. A mountain rose up squarely in the face of it, and the
stream they were following swung sharply to the westward into a narrow
canyon. On the east rose a green and undulating slope up which the horses
could easily travel, and which would take the outfit into a new valley in
the direction of the Driftwood. This course Bruce decided to pursue.
Halfway up the slope they stopped to give the horses a breathing spell. In
his cowhide prison Muskwa whimpered pleadingly. Langdon heard, but he
seemed to pay no attention. He was looking steadily back into the valley.
It was glorious in the morning sun. He could see the peaks under which lay
the cool, dark lake in which Thor had fished; for miles the slopes were
like green velvet and there came to him as he looked the last droning music
of Thor's world. It struck him in a curious way as a sort of anthem, a
hymnal rejoicing that he was going, and that he was leaving things as they
were before he came. And yet, _was_ he leaving things as they had been? Did
his ears not catch in that music of the mountains something of sadness, of
grief, of plaintive prayer?
And again, close to him, Muskwa whimpered softly.
Then Langdon turned to Bruce.
"It's settled," he said, and his words had a decisive ring in them. "I've
been trying to make up my mind all the morning, and it's made up now. You
and Metoosin go on when the horses get their wind. I'm going to ride down
there a mile or so and free the cub where he'll find his way back home!"
He did not wait for arguments or remarks, and Bruce made none. He took
Muskwa in his arms and rode back into the south.
A mile up the valley Langdon came to a wide, open meadow dotted with clumps
of spruce and willows and sweet with the perfume of flowers. Here he
dismounted, and for ten minutes sat on the ground with Muskwa. From his
pocket he drew forth a small paper bag and fed the cub its last sugar. A
thick lump grew in his throat as Muskwa's soft little nose muzzled the palm
of his hand, and when at last he jumped up and sprang into his saddle there
was a mist in his eyes. He tried to laugh. Perhaps he was weak. But he
loved Muskwa, and he knew that he was leaving more than a human friend in
this mountain valley.
"Good-bye, old fellow," he said, and his voice was choking. "Good-bye,
little Spitfire! Mebby some day I'll come back and see you, and you'll be a
big, fierce bear--but I won't shoot--never--never--"
He rode fast into the north. Three hundred yards away he turned his head
and looked back. Muskwa was following, but losing ground. Langdon waved his
hand.
"Good-bye!" he called through the lump in his throat. "Good-bye!"
Half an hour later he looked down from the top of the slope through his
glasses. He saw Muskwa, a black dot. The cub had stopped, and was waiting
confidently for him to return.
And trying to laugh again, but failing dismally, Langdon rode over the
divide and out of Muskwa's life.