“I do,” Langdon reiterated with emphasis.  “He’ll smash record measurements or I miss my guess.  I want him, and I want him bad, Bruce.  Do you think we’ll be able to trail him in the morning?”

Bruce shook his head.

“It won’t be a matter of trailing,” he said.  “It’s just simply hunt.  After a grizzly has been hit he keeps movin’.  He won’t go out of his range, an’ neither is he going to show himself on the open slopes like that up there.  Metoosin ought to be along with the dogs inside of three or four days, an’ when we get that bunch of Airedales in action, there’ll be some fun.”

Langdon sighted at the fire through the polished barrel of his rifle, and said doubtfully: 

“I’ve been having my doubts about Metoosin for a week back.  We’ve come through some mighty rough country.”

“That old Indian could follow our trail if we travelled on rock,” declared Bruce confidently.  “He’ll be here inside o’ three days, barring the dogs don’t run their fool heads into too many porcupines.  An’ when they come”—­he rose and stretched his gaunt frame—­“we’ll have the biggest time we ever had in our lives.  I’m just guessin’ these mount’ins are so full o’ bear that them ten dogs will all be massacreed within a week.  Want to bet?”

Langdon closed his rifle with a snap.

“I only want one bear,” he said, ignoring the challenge, “and I have an idea we’ll get him to-morrow.  You’re the bear specialist of the outfit, Bruce, but I think he was too hard hit to travel far.”

They had made two beds of soft balsam boughs near the fire, and Langdon now followed his companion’s example, and began spreading his blankets.  It had been a hard day, and within five minutes after stretching himself out he was asleep.

He was still asleep when Bruce rolled out from under his blanket at dawn.  Without rousing Langdon the young packer slipped on his boots and waded back a quarter of a mile through the heavy dew to round up the horses.  When he returned he brought Dishpan and their saddle-horses with him.  By that time Langdon was up, and starting a fire.

Langdon frequently reminded himself that such mornings as this had made him disappoint the doctors and rob the grave.  Just eight years ago this June he had come into the North for the first time, thin-chested and with a bad lung.  “You can go if you insist, young man,” one of the doctors had told him, “but you’re going to your own funeral.”  And now he had a five-inch expansion and was as tough as a knot.  The first rose-tints of the sun were creeping over the mountain-tops; the air was filled with the sweetness of flowers, and dew, and growing things, and his lungs drew in deep breaths of oxygen laden with the tonic and perfume of balsam.

He was more demonstrative than his companion in the joyousness of this wild life.  It made him want to shout, and sing, and whistle.  He restrained himself this morning.  The thrill of the hunt was in his blood.