Before doing anything else, Hugh sent the two boys with the axe down into the timber, and told them to get a slender pole, like a lodge pole, and trim it, and bring it up to him. Then resting the ends of the pole on the branches of two trees, about six feet from the ground, he spread the bear hides over it.
After supper that night the talk turned to what they had seen and done that day, and from that to bears. Jack had many questions to ask about them, some of which Hugh could not answer.
"I thought bears almost always had two cubs," said Jack; "but this one only had one, and that you say is a yearling."
"Well," said Hugh, "they do 'most always have two cubs, and sometimes three, and sometimes four. I've heard of five, but I never saw more than four, and those only once. I expect this old bear started in with two cubs, but that something happened to one of them. You see, when cubs first come out they are pretty small, and lots of things are likely to happen to them. This old she-bear very likely lost one of her cubs when it was a little one. You notice, the one we killed is pretty good size for a yearling, and fat and in good order. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd had all his mother's milk now for over a year, and that's maybe what makes him so fat."
"When are the cubs born?" asked Jack.
"Most people think they're born about the middle of the winter," said Hugh. "I know the Indians think that, and I've had one or two men tell me that they've come across bear dens in winter, and killed the mother, and found the cubs in there mighty small—no bigger than a young pup. Anyhow, by the time they get to travelling round, in May and June, they're still right small, not near so big as old Shep, down at the ranch. They say that if you catch the black-bear cubs when they're right small, they make nice pets for a while; but I never heard of anybody that got very friendly with young grizzlies.
"I remember once, years ago, Joe Kipp had a couple on the Blackfoot Reservation, that one of the Indians had caught and brought in when they were right small. Joe put collars on them, and then forgot to take them off, and long toward the end of the summer both bears were like to choke to death, the collars were getting so small for them. I helped Joe and Hi Upham take 'em off, one day, and 'twas a regular circus. Those little cubs—they weren't more'n a foot or fifteen inches high—were awful mean, and regularly on the fight. They were hard to catch, too, and if you did get hold of them they'd turn quick as a wink and bite or scratch you. Finally, we cornered one of 'em, and Joe grabbed it by the ears and held it between his legs, while Hi held the forepaws and I loosened the collar; but it came pretty near scratching Joe's overalls to pieces with its hind feet. We did the same thing with the other one. I tell you they were mean little cusses.
"The Indians don't like bears much; ask Joe," continued Hugh.
"No," said Joe, "Indians don't like bears. Afraid of 'em. Bears are powerful medicine, you know, and some people won't speak about a bear, or won't sit down on a bear skin, and of course they won't eat bear meat. There's lots of stories about bears among the Piegans. In old times, you know, bears used to kill lots of Indians; and the Indians had only stone arrows, and couldn't do anything. If a bear took after a man, maybe the man would shoot three or four arrows into him, and they wouldn't much more than go through his hide, and just make him madder and madder all the time, and at last he'd just catch the man and tear him to pieces. One story my grandfather told me a long time ago, and I heard my uncle tell it again last winter. Would you like to hear it, Jack?"