bushes.

Now a trade-gun is a gun meant to trade. It is a section of what looks
to be gas-pipe, bound by brass bands to a long, clumsy, wooden stick
that extends within an inch of the end of the barrel. It is supposed to
shoot ball or shot. As a matter of fact the marksman's success depends
more on his luck than his skill. Were it not for the Woods-Indian's
extraordinary powers of still-hunting so that he can generally approach
very near to his game, his success would be small indeed.

With the shock of a dozen little bullets the bear went down, snarling
and biting and scattering the sand, but was immediately afoot again. A
black bear is not a particularly dangerous beast in ordinary
circumstances--but occasionally he contributes quite a surprise to the
experience of those who encounter him. This bear was badly wounded and
cruelly frightened. His keen sense of smell informed him that the bushes
contained enemies--how many he did not know, but they were concealed,
unknown, and therefore dreadful. In front of him was something definite.
Before the astonished Indians could back water, he had dashed into the
shallows, and planted his paws on the bow of old Haukemah's canoe.

A simultaneous cry of alarm burst from the other Indians. Some began
frantically to recharge their muzzle-loading trade-guns; others dashed
toward the spot as rapidly as paddle or moccasin could bring them.
Haukemah himself roused valiantly to the defence, but was promptly upset
and pounced upon by the enraged animal. A smother of spray enveloped the
scene. Dick Herron rose suddenly to his feet and shot. The bear
collapsed into the muddied water, his head doubled under, a thin stream
of arterial blood stringing away down the current. Haukemah and his
steersman rose dripping. A short pause of silence ensued.