Thor knew that he was hurt, but he could not comprehend that hurt.  Once in the descent he paused for a few moments, and a little pool of blood dripped upon the ground under his foreleg.  He sniffed at it suspiciously and wonderingly.

He swung eastward, and a little later he caught a fresh taint of the man-smell in the air.  The wind was bringing it to him now, and in spite of the fact that he wanted to lie down and nurse his wound he ambled on a little faster, for he had learned one thing that he would never forget:  the man-smell and his hurt had come together.

He reached the bottoms, and buried himself in the thick timber; and then, crossing this timber, he came to a creek.  Perhaps a hundred times he had travelled up and down this creek.  It was the main trail that led from one half of his range to the other.

Instinctively he always took this trail when he was hurt or when he was sick, and also when he was ready to den up for the winter.  There was one chief reason for this:  he was born in the almost impenetrable fastnesses at the head of the creek, and his cubhood had been spent amid its brambles of wild currants and soap berries and its rich red ground carpets of kinnikinic.  It was home.  In it he was alone.  It was the one part of his domain that he held inviolate from all other bears.  He tolerated other bears—­blacks and grizzlies—­on the wider and sunnier slopes of his range just so long as they moved on when he approached.  They might seek food there, and nap in the sun-pools, and live in quiet and peace if they did not defy his suzerainty.

Thor did not drive other bears from his range, except when it was necessary to demonstrate again that he was High Mogul.  This happened occasionally, and there was a fight.  And always after a fight Thor came into this valley and went up the creek to cure his wounds.

He made his way more slowly than usual to-day.  There was a terrible pain in his fore-shoulder.  Now and then it hurt him so that his leg doubled up, and he stumbled.  Several times he waded shoulder-deep into pools and let the cold water run over his wounds.  Gradually they stopped bleeding.  But the pain grew worse.

Thor’s best friend in such an emergency was a clay wallow.  This was the second reason why he always took this trail when he was sick or hurt.  It led to the clay wallow.  And the clay wallow was his doctor.

The sun was setting before he reached the wallow.  His jaws hung open a little.  His great head drooped lower.  He had lost a great deal of blood.  He was tired, and his shoulder hurt him so badly that he wanted to tear with his teeth at the strange fire that was consuming it.

The clay wallow was twenty or thirty feet in diameter, and hollowed into a little shallow pool in the centre.  It was a soft, cool, golden-coloured clay, and Thor waded into it to his armpits.  Then he rolled over gently on his wounded side.  The clay touched his hurt like a cooling salve.  It sealed the cut, and Thor gave a great heaving gasp of relief.  For a long time he lay in that soft bed of clay.  The sun went down, darkness came, and the wonderful stars filled the sky.  And still Thor lay there, nursing that first hurt of man.