At first he thought the rocks were being hurled at him, but as they followed Loup half way across the river, the men throwing them until the Lynx was out of reach, he concluded that maybe he was safer on that side with the men than on the other with his old enemy. This belief was strengthened when the men stopped bombarding the Lynx, and turned to Buster.
“It’s a young bear!” said one of the men.
“Sure! I told you so before. We must save him. Here, little fellow! Come here! We won’t hurt you!”
Buster looked at them with eyes that seemed ready to pop out of his head. He was so thankful that the men were not going to hurt him that he swam straight toward them. One ran out to meet him, and caught him in his arms.
“The poor little fellow’s hurt,” the man said, noticing the blood on Buster’s shoulder where Loup’s claw had caught him when he first tumbled in the river.
“I wish we had a gun to shoot that Lynx,” remarked the other. “I’ll come back and lay for him.”
The man holding Buster stroked his head and back, as he carried him up on dry land. “The poor little fellow’s tired out and half dead with fright,” he added.
“And hungry, too,” said the second man. “We must find him some warm milk. Got any in the camp?”
“Nothing but condensed milk.”
“Well, we’ll try him with that.”