“That is Solomon Baranov, the best shot in these parts,” explained the storekeeper, leading the way into his shop. “He shoots and traps all the time except in the hottest months of the year. He could tell you some good bear stories, I reckon!”
“‘Baranov’? He’s not a Russian, is he?”
“Father was Russian, and mother a Yankee. She came from somewhere East, I’m told. Now, what can I show you in the way of furs or Indian curios, gentlemen? Look at that for a fox robe!”
The boys purchased a good gray wolf skin, handsomely mounted, knowing that Juneau was the best place in Alaska for buying fine furs. But they hurried out again as soon as this piece of business was transacted, anxious to renew their acquaintance with Baranov.
He was sitting on a raised platform at a little distance, smoking an old brierwood pipe, and talking seriously to a couple of black cubs, who gamboled clumsily about him, tugging at their chains and pushing their snouts into his capacious jacket pockets for eatables.
“Seems to me,” he was saying gravely as the boys came up, “I’d think o’ somethin’ else besides eatin’ all day. Haven’t ye got any ambition? Don’t it wear on ye bein’ tied up, instead o’ rootin’ raound in the woods I took ye from last March? Halloo, boys! Find a pelt ye liked?”
Tom opened his package and displayed the wolf skin.
“Very good, very good,” said the old hunter, running his hand through the fur. “An auk brought that in last winter. He got clawed up putty well, too, killin’ the critter.”
“I wish you’d tell us something about the hunting around here,” said Tom, as he and Fred flung themselves down beside the man.
“Tell ye somethin’! I’d show ye somethin’ ef we only hed time. Why, thar’s b’ars within three gunshot o’ this very spot, like’s not, back a piece on the maounting. How long d’ye stay here?”