But a Grizzly in a rage can outrun any man in a long race, and the angry she-bear rapidly overhauled her foes.  The white man and the Indian ran side by side, although the Indian could have outstripped him.  The red man had his knife in hand ready for the moment when the bear should seize one of them.  The white man glanced over his shoulder, saw the bear lurching along within one jump of them, seized the Indian by the shoulders and hurled him backward into the very jaws of the furious brute.  The white man escaped with his life, and the Indian lived just long enough to tell those who found him, a torn and bloody mass of flesh and broken bones, how he had been sacrificed to a coward’s love of life.

Doctor Tom told this in his uncouth jargon of English and Chinook, without a tremor, but his black eyes glowed with a gleam of light not reflected from the dying embers of the campfire, and Boston was glad that the stranger had gone.  Then he knew why Doctor Tom sat silently apart and would taste no food while the stranger was in camp.  The stranger might accept Boston’s hospitality and eat salt with him, but the Indian would not acknowledge by any act that he, Doctor Tom, had any interest in that camp, or bind himself by Indian custom to treat the stranger as his guest.

Boston awoke in the still dark hours before dawn and lay thinking over Doctor Tom’s story and the demeanor of the man who had wandered into camp.  A cry clove through the silence of the night like a lightning flash through a black cloud, and as the gloom becomes deeper after the flash, so the silence seemed more intense and oppressive after that cry.  It came from across the canyon, clear and far, a cry of mortal terror.

It is a panther, thought Boston, and he listened for its repetition or an answer from the mate, but the stillness was unbroken.  He turned over to see if Doctor Tom had heard or noticed it, and thought the dark bundle by the side of the log seemed rather small for the sleeping Indian.  Boston got up and walked over to the log.  Doctor Tom’s blanket only was there.  Boston looked for the musket; it was in its old place against the tree.  His own rifle was undisturbed.  Boston concluded that Doctor Tom had gone for water or was off on some incomprehensible Indian freak, the reason of which was not worth a white man’s time to puzzle out, rolled up in his blanket again and became oblivious to the realities around him.

It was daylight when Boston awoke again.  Doctor Tom had not returned.  Boston made a fire, and while cooking breakfast he noticed that the Indian’s long knife was gone from the log where he had left it sticking after supper.  He halloed to Tom, but received no answer save the echo.  Calmly confident of Doctor Tom’s ability to look out for himself, Boston went about his business without more ado, ate his breakfast and was taking a second cup of coffee when Doctor Tom came into camp, silent and grave as usual, but rather paler.  He came from the direction of the canyon.