Presumably the man had fired at the bear when the startled horse shied.
Presumably, too, the bear was hit. He had gone straight away in the
track of horse and man, anyway, and--he had saved the wolverine's life,
after, with paw and teeth, doing his best to end it. Possibly he had
been disturbed in the process of making his winter home.

Gulo lay low, or hunted very furtively, after that for some time, until
it was little less dark in the east than it had been, and the gaunt
tree-trunks were standing out a fraction from the general gloom. The
moon had apparently nearly burnt itself out. Still, it yet appeared to
be night.

Gulo was a long way out of his own hunting-district, and guessed that
it was about time for him to get himself out of sight. He had a
passionate hatred of the day, by the way, even beyond most night
hunters.

On the way he smelt out and dug up a grouse beneath the snow.

Dawn found him, or, rather, failed to find him, hidden under a tangled
mass that was part windfall, part brush-wood, and part snow. The place
had belonged to a fox the night before, and that red worthy returned
soon after dawn. He thrust an inquiring sharp muzzle inside, took one
sniff, and, with every hair alift, retired in haste, without waiting to
hear the villainous growl that followed him. The smell was enough for
him--a most calamitous stink.

It snowed all that day, and things grew quieter and quieter, except in
the tree-tops, where the wind spoke viciously between its teeth. When
Gulo came out that evening, he had to dig part of the way, and he