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.
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