will you? Know why that black cross is on them? Course you don't. Well,
I'll tell you."

"H-h-hurry up then and t-t-tell me."

"They're buckshot shells," declared Steve. "Each one's got just twelve
buckshot inside, all as big as pistol bullets. And at short range they're
calculated to bring down a deer like fun. I'd be willing to take my
chances against a black bear, given a good opening to hit him back of his
foreleg. Now you know a heap more'n you did before, Toby Jucklin."

"S-s-sure," answered the other, nodding his head good-naturedly.

"But remember," said Jim at this juncture, "a good bearskin is worth all
the way from five to twenty dollars to me. But after you've made a sieve
out of it with twelve or twenty-four buckshot from that scatter gun, why,
I hardly think I could give it away."

"So Steve, please restrain your bear-killing feeling just now," said Max.
"Whether we get him in a trap or shoot him on the run the bear steaks
will taste just as good; won't they, Uncle Jim?"

"I reckon you're right," replied the trapper, without any great
animation; for doubtless he had found bear meat pretty tough eating, and
given his choice would any day have much preferred the porterhouse steak
which Steve had so often at home that he turned up his nose at it.

When they arrived at the marsh where the countless muskrats had their
homes, a new species of interest was aroused.