“You’ll have to come up to Alaska, where we live, Alex,” said John. “We’ve got plenty of wild country back inside of Alaska yet. But even there the outside hunters are killing off the bear and moose mighty fast.”
“Yes,” said Alex, “for sport, for their heads, and not for the meat! My people kill for meat alone, and they could live here forever and the game would still be as thick as ever it was. It’s the whites who destroy the new countries.”
“I’m beginning to like this country more and more,” said Jesse, frankly. “Back in the mountains sometimes I was pretty badly scared, the water roared so much all the time. But here the country looks easier, and the water isn’t so strong. I think we’ll have the best part of our trip now.”
At that instant the sound of a rifle-shot rang out from some point below them on the river. The dugout had just swung out of sight around the bend. “That’s Rob’s rifle!” exclaimed John.
“Very likely,” said Alex. “Bear, I suppose.”
The crew of the Jaybird bent to their paddles and presently passed in turn about the sharp bend and came up alongside the dugout, which lay along shore in some slack water. Rob was looking a trifle shamefaced.
“Did you miss him?” asked John, excitedly.
“Well,” said Rob, “I suppose you’d call it a miss—he was running up the bank there about half a mile away. You can see him going yet, for that matter.”
Sure enough, they could, the animal by this time seeming not larger than a dog as it scrambled up among the bushes on the top of the steep precipice which lined the bank of the river.