It had all happened quick as a flash of light.  A huge, furry, reeking mass rising right in the wolverine’s path from behind a tree, towering over him, almost mountainous to his eyes, like the very shape of doom!  Himself hurling sideways, and rolling over and over, snarling, to prevent the crowning disaster of collision with this terrible portent!  A blow, two blows, with enormous paws whose claws gleamed like skewers, whistling half-an-inch above his ducked head!  Jaws, monstrous and wet, grabbing at him in enraged confusion, and rumblings deep down in the inside of the thing that ran cold lightning-sparks all up his spine.  That was what Gulo saw and heard.

The wolverine rolled, clawing and biting, three times, and without a pause sprang to his feet again, and leapt madly clear, stumbled on a hidden tree-root, rolled over again twice, and up, and hurled, literally with his last gasp and effort, headlong through the air behind a tree-bole, where he remained all asprawl and motionless, except for his heaving sides, too utterly done at last for any terror to move him.

There followed instantly a horse’s wild snort; another; a shout; the crack of a rifle cutting the silence as a knife cuts a taut string; another crack; an awful, hoarse growl; the furious thudding of horse’s hoofs stampeding and growing fainter and fainter; and an appalling series of receding, short, coughing, terrifying, grunting roars.  Then silence and utter stillness only, and the cold, calm moon staring down over all.

Gulo picked himself up after a bit, and slouched round the tree to investigate.  He found tracks there, and blood; and the tracks were the biggest footprints of a bear—­a brown bear—­that he had ever come across, and I suppose that he must have sniffed at a few in his time.

Presumably the man had fired at the bear when the startled horse shied.  Presumably, too, the bear was hit.  He had gone straight away in the track of horse and man, anyway, and—­he had saved the wolverine’s life, after, with paw and teeth, doing his best to end it.  Possibly he had been disturbed in the process of making his winter home.

Gulo lay low, or hunted very furtively, after that for some time, until it was little less dark in the east than it had been, and the gaunt tree-trunks were standing out a fraction from the general gloom.  The moon had apparently nearly burnt itself out.  Still, it yet appeared to be night.

Gulo was a long way out of his own hunting-district, and guessed that it was about time for him to get himself out of sight.  He had a passionate hatred of the day, by the way, even beyond most night hunters.

On the way he smelt out and dug up a grouse beneath the snow.

Dawn found him, or, rather, failed to find him, hidden under a tangled mass that was part windfall, part brush-wood, and part snow.  The place had belonged to a fox the night before, and that red worthy returned soon after dawn.  He thrust an inquiring sharp muzzle inside, took one sniff, and, with every hair alift, retired in haste, without waiting to hear the villainous growl that followed him.  The smell was enough for him—­a most calamitous stink.