Here, said Hank Brown, was good bear country.

And a little farther on he pulled up and pointed down to the dust of the trail, where he said a bear had crossed that morning.

Jack saw the imprint of what looked like two ill-shaped short feet of a man walking barefooted--or perhaps two crude hands pressed into the dirt--and was thrilled into forgetfulness of his trouble.
Before they had gone another mile, he had bought Hank's rifle and all the cartridges he happened to have with him.

He paid as much as a new rifle would have cost, but he did not know that--though he did know that he had scarcely enough money left in his pocket to jingle when the transaction was completed.

He carried the rifle across the saddle in front of him and fingered the butt pridefully while his eyes went glancing here and there hopefully, looking for the bear that had crossed the trail that morning.