“Yep, we come pretty durn near killin’ two birds—or ponies, rayther—with one stone,” grinned Bitter Creek Jones; “but all’s well as turns out all right, as the poet says.”
“Bitter, you’re all right,” cried Jim, clutching the hand of the prospector who had turned up so opportunely.
“Shucks! That’s all right, Jim. It wasn’t much to do fer you, old pal,” responded Bitter returning the pressure. “And now,” he went on, as if anxious to change the subject, “you’d better skin that lion and be gettin’ on yer way. It’s drawin’ in late, and this is a bad part of the country to get benighted in, more specially with a bunch of Bloods hanging about all lit up with fire-water.”
“Reckon you’re right, Bitter,” was the response as Mountain Jim deftly made the necessary incisions and he and his friend skinned the dead cougar with skillful hands.
It was not long after that they parted company. Bitter Creek Jones continuing toward the south, while Ralph and Mountain Jim swung on to their ponies and resumed their journey toward the northwest. The last they saw of Bitter Creek Jones he was waving a hearty adieu to them and shouting:
“See you in Alaska north of fifty-three, some time.”
Then a shoulder of mountain shut him out and they saw him no more.
“There’s a white man,” said Jim with deep conviction, as the ponies carried them from the scene. “He’s rough as a bear, is Bitter, but white right down to his gizzard.”
Ralph regretted that he could not have taken one of the cubs along, but on the rough trip that still lay before them it would have been extremely difficult if not impossible to transport it. So the little den of young cougars had to be left behind to await the return of their wounded mother, an event which, Mountain Jim declared, would take place within a short time.