McLaggan thought swiftly. He knew bears. He knew that, as a rule, it is only the females heavy with young that "hole up" in this way for the winter. He knew that they frequently gave birth to their cubs before the end of their winter sleep. And he had been told by a wise old Indian guide that under such conditions a bear, unless aroused by violence, was quite stupidly gentle and tractable. He thought of his own present weakness. Well, he would take no risks. He must see to it that one shot would settle the matter instantaneously. For already his last spurt of strength and decision was dying down, and he felt a deadly exhaustion stealing over him.
With rifle ready McLaggan crawled close up to that large, obscure form, put out a cautious naked hand, and touched it. It was the silken, furry head of the suckling cub that he touched. The cub gave a little whimper of content at the touch, mistaking it for the mother's caress. The warmth, the softness, a ridiculous sense of security and shieldedness in contrast to the bitter loneliness of death outside the cave, produced an amazing effect on McLaggan in his weakness. He wanted to hug the warm cub to his heart, and maudlin tears welled to his eyes. But fortunately at the same moment another impulse, not only stronger but saner, seized him. He realized that the cub was swallowing warm milk. With a gasp
