THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH
Bluff looked, and then winked his eyes several times, as though he
feared they might be deceiving him. Still that great reddish brown
bulk was there. He could now even see the massive horns that reared
upward above the animal’s head.
No wonder Will had admitted he was staggered by the size of the bull
moose! There never could have been such a big animal, Bluff was ready
to believe, in all the history of game shot in Maine.
He did not say a single word, though Jerry could hear a sharp hiss
escape from Bluff’s lips.
That strong wind blowing directly in their faces, and from the moose,
was greatly in their favor. So far as Bluff could understand, the
animal either had not detected their presence, or was disdainful of
the fact. He seemed to be doing something, for they could see his head
uplifted, as though some low-hanging branch may have been the object
of his attention, and he was engaged in stripping it of its still
clinging leaves.
Now it happened that in the earlier stages of the woods chase Bluff
and Jerry deliberately laid their plans looking to some such happy
ending as had now come to pass.
Bluff was to take aim first, but not to fire until he knew his side
partner was prepared to shoot also. In order that equal shares of the
great honor that would attach to the killing of the giant moose should
fall upon their heads, it was agreed to fire at the same second.
Jerry saw his chum slowly lifting his gun. He knew that Bluff wished
to avoid making any quick movement, as that was likely to catch the
attention of the beast, and cause him to start a speedy flight.
So Jerry copied the example. He, too, intended getting the stock of
his rifle firmly planted against his shoulder, so that he could take a
quick but accurate aim. Then when Bluff gave the signal—which was to
be a low whistle—it was up to both boys to press their triggers.
They would never forget the sensations they experienced during that
few seconds while bringing their guns to a level. It seemed ages to
Jerry. He even began to believe he must be seized with some species of
nightmare, and that a stupor prevented him from moving.
He was sure that the moose had glimpsed them. Indeed, it seemed to
Jerry that the massive muzzle of the animal was pointed directly
toward them, as though he might be waiting to observe another slight
move before springing away.
Why did not Bluff give that little whistle? Everything was set, and
ready for the finishing stroke. Jerry began to wonder whether it might
not be that Bluff was trembling so much with excitement that he had
actually lost the power to pucker up his lips.
Then it came.
The crash that followed sounded like the discharge of one gun, both
reports blending into a single roar.
Enthusiasm seized both young sportsmen when they saw their victim
floundering on the snow-covered ground.
“Hurrah!” fairly shrieked Jerry, throwing all his enthusiasm into that
single word.
Bluff was meanwhile making his gun ready for further business. If this
moose was as tough as people said, and rivaled the silver-tip bear of
the Rockies in clinging to life after receiving a multitude of wounds,
he meant to be ready to give him another shot.
“Throw out the old shell—quick, he’s getting up again!” Bluff hissed.
This time he sank on one knee, and secured a rest for his left elbow
on the leg that was extended. He believed that he could give a better
account of himself when in that position. Now if the old bull moose
insisted on struggling to his feet again, he must be reached in a
vital part.
There was no need of wasting any more ammunition, although the boys,
not being experienced in this line of hunting, did not know it
positively.
“Oh, Bluff, he’s gone crashing down again!” gasped Jerry.
“Yes, and this time, I guess, it’s for keeps,” added the other, though
hardly able to realize that, after all, they had accomplished the
great feat, visions of which had tempted them to follow the snow trail
all these weary miles.
Together they started on a mad run toward the spot, eager to feast
their eyes on the sight of that magnificent specimen lying there.
“Careful, Jerry; he may be playing ’possum with us!” warned Bluff, who
had been fed of late on so many remarkable stories concerning a
moose’s tenacity in holding on to life that he was ready to believe
almost anything of this king of the Big Woods.
“Aw, he’s as dead as a doornail!” Jerry told him; and in proof of his
assertion he strode up to the bulky carcass to push it with the toe of
his shoe.
There was no movement, and after that no one could believe that an
atom of life remained in the body of the bull moose.
“Shake on that, Jerry,” said Bluff, as they stood over the body of
their victim; “I want to congratulate you on the nervy way you did
your part. Both bullets found their mark, you can see. I reckon either
one would have wound him up; so it’s a fair divide.”
“Yes,” the other ventured, “either one of us can say we killed him.
Isn’t he a monster, though! Look at the horns, Bluff; would you ever
dream a moose could grow such busters in a single season?”
“I hope they haven’t been injured by the fall,” remarked Bluff,
bending down the better to examine the dead animal’s head adornments.
The horns of a full-grown moose differ radically from the antlers of a
buck deer, being thick and massive rather than delicate and pronged.
The cow moose does not sport any adornments on her head, and looks
very much like a mule. But there is no species of deer in the American
forests that can come anywhere near the moose in size and power, the
elk possibly approaching closer than any other animal.
Neither of the boys gave the slightest heed to the fact that it was
commencing to snow again and for about the sixth time since they
started out.
“This is what they always say is the proudest moment in our lives,
Bluff!” Jerry was remarking, seemingly content to stand there leaning
on his gun and staring down at the biggest wild animal either of them
had ever taken a hand in bringing down, if the grizzly bear, of which
they were recently talking, might be excepted.
“I wish Will and his camera were here to get a picture of our first
moose, the biggest one that will be brought down in the whole State of
Maine this season, like as not.” And Bluff looked sad to think they
might not have something to show as evidence when they wanted to back
up the story they would tell about their moose hunt.
“What are we going to do with him, now we’ve got him?” asked Jerry,
scratching his head.
“All anybody cares for in an old moose like this,” Bluff told him, “is
the horns. You couldn’t get your teeth into his flesh, no matter if
you filed ’em to a point. Of course, the Indians keep the skin to make
moccasins and shoes out of.”
“Yes, I knew that, because I’ve had a pair of moccasins made of
elkskin. When it’s tanned right, it makes a tough article for
footwear. But suppose we did take the hide and horns, how in the
dickens would we ever get them to camp?”
“If we could make some sort of sledge now,” Bluff went on to say
reflectively, “with our hatchet, no matter how clumsy it was, we could
manage to draw home what we wanted.”
“If we left anything behind that was worthwhile, we’d have to hang it
up high, I should think, Bluff. You remember that we heard a wolf
howling one night, even if we haven’t come across any of them since.”
Bluff was trying to figure out what their program should be. While
they had made all possible arrangements as to how to track the beast
and the method of firing by volley so as to better encompass his fall,
the boys had not dared go beyond that point.
Jerry was afraid it would be too much like counting their chickens
before they were hatched, and on his part Bluff felt perfectly willing
to let that part of the future take care of itself.
“I think that would be a good plan to follow, Jerry, and you deserve
great credit for thinking of it,” he remarked presently, which of
course caused the other chum to feel more or less satisfaction.
“Who’ll do the cutting up; and who wants to make the sledge?” asked
Bluff, after a little time had elapsed and they felt that something
should be gotten under way looking to a move; for faster now was the
snow falling, and it might be that the storm was about to break over
their heads.
“I think you’re more experienced about carving and taking pelts off
than I am,” Jerry expostulated. “To tell you the honest truth, I never
removed a hide in all my life, though I’ve had sections of my own
knocked off by a rattan at school many a time.”
Possibly Bluff had more than half expected that the decision would
result that way. To tell the truth, he was not much bothered, for he
rather liked the task of taking the moose’s tough hide off and
severing his head so that it might be transported the easier to their
far-distant lodge.
“Then that means, Jerry, you’ll start in making a sledge; not a fancy
one, but just serviceable enough to carry what we want over the snow,
no matter how deep it gets.”
The last part of what Bluff said was no doubt inspired by the fact
that the snow was now falling heavily. There could hardly be any
question but that the long-anticipated storm had now arrived, and
seemed anxious to make up for lost time.
“I think I can manage, if only there happens to be some decent wood
handy to make the runners out of,” Jerry told his comrade, with
conviction in his manner.
“How would these young second-growth ash slips do?” asked the other.
“You can split one down, and then bend it better. But I’m going to
leave all that to you, Jerry. Do your best with your little hatchet.
Remember, George Washington came by a lot of fame through his.”
Jerry turned to hurry over to the thicket of ash sprouts that had
started up a year or so before, where a large tree had been cut down.
He did not make three steps in that direction before he came to a
sudden halt.
Bluff, who had drawn his hunting knife and with grim resolution was
stooping over the moose, heard him give a low cry.
“Bluff! Look what’s bearing down on us!” Jerry said weakly, as though
some fresh disaster were looming above the horizon.
It did not take Bluff long to discover what kind of trouble it was by
which they were about to be faced. Moving figures could be seen. They
were heading directly toward where the dead moose lay, as though the
sound of their double shot had carried through the woods and drawn
these others to the spot.
Although indistinctly seen, on account of the gathering gloom and the
curtain of falling snow-flakes that swept past on the fierce wind,
there was no mistaking the tall figure of Bill Nackerson and the more
sturdy ones of his two companion sportsmen.
A sense of coming trouble immediately weighed on the minds of Bluff
and Jerry, as they awaited the coming of the men.