Slowly and painfully the poor old bear staggered down the valley. His
eyes were glazed and he could not tell where the trees and barb-wire
fences were until he butted his nose against them. The gout in his
maimed foot throbbed horribly, and all the loose bullets in his system
seemed to have assembled in his chest and taken the place of his once
stout heart. But he had a fixed purpose in his mind, and on he went to
its fulfillment, grimly determined to make a fitting finish to a
romantic life.

At the lower end of the valley lived the country doctor. To his house
came the club-footed bear at midnight, worn and nearly spent with the
pitiful journey. There was a dim light in the back office, but it was
unoccupied. Clubfoot heaved his bulk against the door and broke the
lock, softly entered the room and sniffed anxiously of the rows of jars
and bottles upon a shelf. His eyes were dim and he could not read the
labels, but his nose was still keen and he knew he should find what he
was seeking. He found it. Taking down a two-gallon jar, Clubfoot
tucked it under his arm tenderly and walked out erect, just as in the
old days he was wont to walk away from a farmyard with a calf or a pig
under each arm. It has been said of him that he could carry off a
steer in that fashion, but probably that is an exaggeration or even a
fable.

Behind the doctor's stable was a bucket containing the sponge used in
washing the doctor's carriage. Clubfoot found the bucket, broke the
two-gallon jar upon the sharp edge and spilled the contents upon the
sponge. Taking one last look at the stars and the distant mountain
peaks, he plunged his muzzle into the sponge, jammed his head tightly
into the bucket and took one long, deep breath.