MOOSEHEAD EXPRESS.
“A moose!”
“Cricky! Isn’t he a fine one?”
“Him plenty big!”
The first exclamation was from Merriwell, the second from Bruce
Browning, the third from John Caribou, the guide.
The three were in a canoe, which had been creeping along the wooded
shore of a narrow arm of Lily Bay.
“Reach me the camera,” whispered Merriwell.
The camera was at Browning’s feet and was quickly handed up.
John Caribou was sitting in one end of the canoe as silently as an
image of bronze.
The big moose that had not yet seen them, stepped from the trees
into full view, outlining itself on a jutting headland, as it
looked across the sheet of water.
Even the impassive guide was moved to admiration. A finer sight
was never beheld. The moose was a very giant of its kind. With its
huge bulk towering on the rocky point, its immense palmated antlers
uplifted, its attitude that of expectant attention, it presented a
picture that could never be forgotten.
Frank Merriwell lifted the camera, carefully focused it on the big
beast and pressed the button.
He was about to repeat the performance when something stirred in
the trees a hundred yards or more to the left, and Hans Dunnerwust
came into view.
He did not see the canoe and its occupants, but he saw the moose,
and he stopped stock still, as if in doubt whether to retreat or
proceed on his way.
The moose had turned and was looking straight at him, with staring,
fear-filled eyes. Then it wheeled with surprising quickness for so
large a beast and shambled off the headland toward the water’s edge.
This increased Hans’ courage. He was always very brave when
anything showed fear of him. He had been on the point of turning in
flight, but now he sprang clear of the trees, and ran toward the
moose with a shout.
“A teer! A teer! Another teer!” he screeched, waving has hand and
his gun.
Merriwell snapped the camera on the moose as it scrambled down the
slope.
“Might have another negative of it standing, if Hans hadn’t put in
an appearance,” he declared, feeling at the moment as if he wished
he might give the Dutch boy a good shaking.
But he had reason in a little while to call down blessings on the
head of Hans for this unintentional intervention.
Frightened by Hans’ squawking and the noise he made in running, the
moose dashed up and down the shore for a few moments, then took to
the lake.
“There he goes,” whispered Browning, roused to a state of
excitement.
“Plenty skeer!” said Caribou. “Sometime moose him skeer ver’ easy.”
“He’s going to swim for the other shore,” declared Merriwell,
putting down the camera and then picking it up again.
For a few yards the frightened moose made a tremendous splashing,
but when it got down to business, it sank from sight, with the
exception of its black neck and head and broad antlers, and forged
through the water at a very respectable rate of speed.
Merriwell focused the camera on the swimming animal and was sure
he got a good picture, then put down the camera and picked up his
rifle. He wanted to get nearer the big beast, and he knew he would
feel safer with a weapon in his hands in the event of its urgent
need.
“Fun now, if want?” said the guide, suggestively, looking toward
the moose with shining eyes. “Much fun with big bull moose in water
some time.”
“A little fun won’t hurt us, if it doesn’t hurt the moose,”
responded Merriwell, who as yet hardly knew just what was in the
guide’s mind. “Eh, Browning?”
“Crowd along,” consented Browning. “I don’t mind getting close
enough to that fellow to get a good look at him. If it wasn’t out
of season I’d have that head of horns!”
“Aren’t they magnificent?” asked Merriwell, with enthusiasm.
The guide looked at Merriwell as if to receive his assent.
Hans Dunnerwust had rushed to the shore in a wild burst of speed,
and was now hopping wildly.
Suddenly he caught sight of Merriwell and the others in the canoe.
“A teer! A teer!” he shrieked. “Didn’t you seen him? He roon vrum
me like a bolicemans, t’inking dot he voult shood me. Put noddings
vouldn’t shood me oudt uf seasons!”
“I don’t know about that,” grunted Browning. “Fools, as game, are
never out of season, and the fool-killer is always gunning for
them.”
“Yes; go on,” said Merriwell to the guide. “As I said, a little fun
won’t hurt us if it isn’t of a kind to hurt the moose. See how he
is swimming! That’s a sight to stir the most prosaic heart.”
John Caribou did not need urging. He dipped the paddle deeply into
the water, and the canoe shot away in pursuit of the swimming
animal.
The moose was already some distance from land, and forging ahead
with powerful strokes; but under the skillful paddling of the guide
the canoe quickly decreased the intervening distance.
It was worth something just to watch John Caribou handle the
broad-bladed paddle. He dipped it with so light a touch that
scarcely a ripple was produced; but when he pulled on it in a way
that fairly bent the stout blade, the canoe seemed literally to
leap over the waves. Every motion was that of unstudied grace.
Browning could not remain stolid and impassive under circumstances
that would almost pump the blood through the veins of a corpse. He
grew as enthusiastic as Merriwell.
“See the old fellow go!” he whispered, referring to the speed of
the moose. “He’s cutting through the water like a steamboat.”
The guide rose to his feet, still wielding the paddle.
“We’ll be right on top of him in a minute,” said Merriwell. “Look
out there, Caribou! He may turn on us. We don’t want to have a
fight with him, you know.”
Caribou did not answer. He only gave the canoe another strong
drive forward, then dropped the paddle and caught up an end of the
canoe’s tow line, in which he made a running noose.
He stood erect, awaiting a good opportunity to throw the line. The
canoe swept on under the propulsion that had been given it. Then
the noose left Caribou’s hand, hurled with remarkable precision,
and fell gracefully over the broad antlers. Instantly Caribou
grasped the paddle and whirled the canoe about so that the stern
became the bow.
“Hurrah!” cried Merriwell, half expecting that the moose would now
turn on them to give them battle. “That was a handsome throw. I
didn’t know you were equal to the tricks of a cowboy, Caribou.”
The guide did not answer. Very likely he did not know the meaning
of the word cowboy.
In another instant the line tightened, and they were yanked swiftly
along.
“Towed by a moose!” exclaimed Browning. “That’s a new sensation,
Merry!”
“Yes; this is great. This is what you might call moose-head
express,” laughed Frank.
“It’s enough to make a fellow feel romantic, anyway,” grunted
Browning. “Pulled by a moose on Moosehead Lake, with an Indian
guide to do the steering.”
The moose was now badly frightened, and showed signs of wanting to
turn around, whereupon the guide picked up the paddle and gave it
a tap on the side of the head.
This brought a floundering objection from the scared animal, but it
had, nevertheless, the desired effect, for the moose again started
off smartly for the opposite shore, drawing the canoe after it.
The big beast did not seem to be tired, but it puffed and panted
like a steam engine.
“That’s right, Caribou,” cried Merriwell, approvingly. “Just hang
on and let him go. I don’t mind a ride of this kind. It’s a sort of
sport we weren’t looking for, but it’s great, just the same.”
“Much fun with big bull moose in water some time,” Caribou
repeated. “Drive big moose like horse.”
Then the guide gave them an exhibition of moose driving. By yanking
this way and that on the line, he was able to alter the moose’s
course, and that showed that he could turn it almost at his will.
Not once did the moose seek to turn and fight as Merriwell had
thought he would do if lassoed. It seemed only intent on getting
away from its tormentors, and appeared to think the way to do that
was to swim straight ahead toward the land as fast as it could.
Hans was still hopping up and down on the shore, and now and then
sending a screech of excitement and delight across the water.
After he had shown that the moose could be turned about if desired,
Caribou let the scared animal take its own course. The distance
across was considerable, and he knew the moose would be tired by
the swim.
He held the line, while Frank and Bruce sat in their places
enjoying the novel ride to the fullest extent.
Thus the canoe was towed across the arm of the bay, giving to our
friends an experience that few sportsmen or tourists are able to
enjoy.
As the moose neared the shore, Caribou severed the line close up
to its antlers and let it go. It was pretty well blown, as the
heaviness of its breathing showed.
Scrambling out of the water, it turned half at bay, as if feeling
that, with its broad hoofs planted on solid ground it could make a
stand for its life; but when the occupants of the canoe showed no
intention of advancing to attack it, it gave its ungainly head a
toss and shambled away, the severed end of the noose floating from
its antlers.
Merriwell caught up his camera and snapped it on the moose before
it entered the woods, so getting a picture of a moose fresh from a
swim in the lake, with its shaggy sides wet and gleaming.
Then the moose broke into an awkward run, and was soon lost to
view.
A half hour later, while they were still paddling along the shore,
they heard a shot from the woods, in the direction taken by the
moose.
“Poachers?” said Frank, questioningly. “Do you suppose somebody has
fired at our moose?”