They halted for a hasty dinner and then pressed forward. Baranov could not be positive that the same bear was before them on this hard track, but it seemed highly improbable that Ursus Americanus had left his easy highway for the almost impenetrable growth of evergreens on either side.
It was about three in the afternoon when Baranov halted so suddenly that Fred, who was next behind him, fairly tumbled against him, nearly upsetting the hunter. The latter, however, paid no attention to this. He was too much occupied in examining half a dozen hairs, which he had picked from a low spruce bough projecting across the path.
“What is it?” the boys whispered eagerly, their fatigue gone in a moment.
“Look at them ha’rs!”
“Why, they’re almost white! They are white at the tips.”
“The animil that went through here ahead of us, left ’em behind,” said the guide. “An’ it wa’n’t no black b’ar, neither, as you can see for yourselves.”
“What was it—not grizzly?”
The idea was not wholly a pleasant one, and the young hunters looked nervously around.
“No, no; it’s no grizzly. It’s my opinion that a big silver-tip, a glacier b’ar, some calls ’em, is just beyond,” rejoined Baranov.
“A glacier bear? I never heard of one before,” whispered Fred.