Inside the shirt Muskwa scratched and bit and snarled, and Bruce was having his hands full when Langdon ran down with the second shirt.  Very shortly Muskwa was trussed up like a papoose.  His legs and his body were swathed so tightly that he could not move them.  His head was not covered.  It was the only part of him that showed, and the only part of him that he could move, and it looked so round and frightened and funny that for a minute or two Langdon and Bruce forgot their disappointments and losses of the day and laughed.

Then Langdon sat down on one side of Muskwa, and Bruce on the other, and they filled and lighted their pipes.  Muskwa could not even kick an objection.

“A couple of husky hunters we are,” said Langdon then.  “Come out for a grizzly and end up with that!”

He looked at the cub.  Muskwa was eying him so earnestly that Langdon sat in mute wonder for a moment, and then slowly took his pipe from his mouth and stretched out a hand.

“Cubby, cubby, nice cubby,” he cajoled softly.

Muskwa’s tiny ears were perked forward.  His bright eyes were like glass.  Bruce, unobserved by Langdon, was grinning expectantly.

“Cubby won’t bite—­no—­no—­nice little cubby—­we won’t hurt cubby—­”

The next instant a wild yell startled the mountain-tops as Muskwa’s needle-like teeth sank into one of Langdon’s fingers.  Bruce’s howls of joy would have frightened game a mile away.

“You little devil!” gasped Langdon, and then, as he sucked his wounded finger, he laughed with Bruce.  “He’s a sport—­a dead game sport,” he added.  “We’ll call him Spitfire, Bruce.  By George, I’ve wanted a cub like that ever since I first came into the mountains.  I’m going to take him home with me!  Ain’t he a funny looking little cuss?”

Muskwa shifted his head, the only part of him that was not as stiffly immovable as a mummy, and scrutinized Bruce.  Langdon rose to his feet and looked back to the sky-line.  His face was set and hard.

“Four dogs!” he said, as if speaking to himself.  “Three down below—­and one up there!” He was silent for a moment, and then said:  “I can’t understand it, Bruce.  They’ve cornered fifty bears for us, and until to-day we’ve never lost a dog.”

Bruce was looping a buckskin thong about Muskwa’s middle, making of it a sort of handle by which he could carry the cub as he would have conveyed a pail of water or a slab of bacon.  He stood up, and Muskwa dangled at the end of his string.

“We’ve run up against a killer,” he said.  “An’ a meat-killin’ grizzly is the worst animal on the face of the earth when it comes to a fight or a hunt.  The dogs’ll never hold ‘im, Jimmy, an’ if it don’t get dark pretty soon there won’t none of the bunch come back.  They’ll quit at dark—­if there’s any left.  The old fellow’s got our wind, an’ you can bet he knows what knocked him down up there on the snow.  He’s hikin’—­an’ hikin’ fast.  When we see ’im ag’in it’ll be twenty miles from here.”