He had bolted for good, vanished into the mysterious deeps of the
primeval forest, whether hurt unto death, or merely “nipped” in a
fore-leg, as Herb inclined to think, nobody knew.
“It’s too dark to see blood-marks, if there are any, so we can’t trail
him to-night. If he’s hit bad—but I guess he ain’t—we can track him in
the morning,” said the guide; as, after an interval of listening, the
rescued pair dropped down from their perches. “Did he chase you, boys?
Where on earth did you come on him?”
Talking together, their words tumbling out like a torrent let loose,
Cyrus Garst and Dol Farrar gave an account of the past two
hours—strangest hours of their lives—filling up the picture of them bit
by bit.
“Whew! whew! You did have a narrow squeak, boys, and a scarey time; but
I guess you had a lot of fun out of the old snorter,” said Herb, his
rare laugh jingling out, starting the forest echoes like a clang of
bells. “You’ve won those antlers, Dol—won ’em like a man. Blest, but
you have! I promised ’em to the first fellow who called up a moose; and
nary a woodsman in Maine could have done it better. I’m powerful glad
’twasn’t your own death-call you gave. I’ll keep my eye on you now till
you leave these woods. Where’s the horn?”
“Smashed to bits,” answered Dol regretfully.
“And the camp-kettle?”
“Lying by the spring, over there on the knoll, unless the moose kicked
it to pieces,” said Cyrus.
“My senses! you’re a healthy pair to send for water, ain’t ye? Let’s
cruise off and find it. I guess you’ll be wanting a drink of hot
coffee, after roosting in them trees for so long.”
Garst led the way to the spring. Its pretty hum sounded like an angel’s
whisper through the night, after the tumult of the past scene. Herb
fumbled in his leather wallet, brought out a match and a small piece of
birch-bark, and kindled a light. With some groping, the kettle was
found; it was filled, and the party started for camp.
“I heard the distant challenge of a bull-moose a couple of hours ago,”
said the guide, as they went along. “I never suspicioned he was
attacking you; but after the camp was a’ ready, and you hadn’t turned
up, I got kind o’ scared. I left Neal to tend the fire and toast the
pork, and started out to search. I s’pose I took the wrong direction;
for I hollered, and got no answer. Afterwards, when I was travelling
about the bog, I heard a ‘Coo-hoo!’ and the noises of an angry moose.
Then I guessed there was trouble.”
“Won’t Neal look blue when he hears that he was toasting pork while we
were perched in those trees, with the moose waltzing below!” exclaimed
Dol. “Well, Cy, I’ve won the antlers, and I’ve got my ripping story for
the Manchester fellows. I don’t care how soon we turn home now.”
“You don’t, don’t ye?” said the guide. “Well, I should s’pose you’d
want to trail up that moose to-morrow, and see what has become of him.”
“Of course I do! I forgot that.”
And Dol Farrar, who had thought his record of adventure and triumph so
full that it could hold no more, realized that there is always for
ambition a farther point.
Neal did feel a little blue over the thought of what he had missed.
But, being a generous-hearted fellow, he tasted his young brother’s
joy, when the latter cuddled close to him upon the evergreen boughs
that night, muttering, as if the whole earth lay conquered at his
feet:—
“My legs are as stiff as ramrods, but who’d think of his legs after
such a night as we’ve had?
“I say, Neal, this is life; the little humbugging scrapes we used to
call adventures at home are only play for girls. It’s something to talk
about for a lifetime, when a fellow comes to close quarters with a
creature like that moose. I said I’d get the better of his ears, and I
did it. Pinch me, old boy, if I begin a moose-call in my sleep.”
Several times during the night Neal found it necessary to obey this
injunction, else had there been no peace in the camp. But, in spite of
Dol’s ravings and riotings in his excited dreams, the party enjoyed a
needed ten hours’ slumber, all save Herb, who, as usual, was astir the
next morning while his comrades were yet snoring.
He got his fire going well, and baked a great flat loaf of bread in his
frying-pan, setting the pan amid hot ashes and covering it over.
Previous to this, he had made a pilgrimage to the distant spring, to
fill his kettle for coffee and bread-making, and had carefully examined
the ground about the clump of hemlocks.
The result of his investigation was given to the boys as they ate their
breakfast under the shade of a cedar, with a sky above them whose
morning glories were here and there overshot by leaden tints.
“I guess we’ve got a pretty fair chance of trailing that moose,” he
said. “I found both hair and blood on the spot where he was wounded.
I’m for following up his tracks, though I guess they’ll take us a bit
up the mountain. If he’s hurt bad, ’twould be kind o’ merciful to end
his sufferings. If he ain’t, we can let him get off.”
“Right, as you always are, Herb,” answered Cyrus. “But what on earth
made the creature bolt so suddenly? If you had seen him five minutes
before he was shot, you’d have said he had as much fight in him as a
lion.”
“That’s the way with moose a’most always. Their courage ain’t that o’
flesh-eating animals. It’s only a spurt; though it’s a pretty big spurt
sometimes, as you boys know now. It’ll fail ’em in a minute, when you
least expect it. And, you see, that one last night didn’t know where
his wound came from. I guess he thought he was struck by lightning or a
thunder-ball, so he skipped. Talking of thunder-balls, boys,” wound up
Herb, “I shouldn’t be surprised if the old Mountain Spirit, who lives
up a-top there, gave us a rattling welcome with his thunders to-day.
The air is awful heavy for this time of year. Perhaps we’d better give
up the trailing after all.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Dol indignantly. “Do you think a shower will melt
us? Or that we’ll squeal like girls at a few flashes of lightning?
’Twould be jolly good fun to see old Pamolah sending off his
artillery.”
“Well, there’d be no special danger, I guess, if we were past the heavy
timber growth before the storm began. There’s lots of rocky dens on the
mountain side where we could shelter under a granite ledge, and be
safer than we’d be here in tent. Or we might come a-near our old log
camp. I guess, if that’s standing yet, you’d like to see it. Say! we’ll
leave it to Cyrus. He’s boss, ain’t he?”
Cyrus, desperately anxious to know whether it would be life or death
for the wounded moose, and regarding the signs of bad weather as by no
means certain, decided in favor of the expedition. The campers
hurriedly swallowed the remainder of their breakfast, and made ready
for an immediate start.
“In trailing a moose the first rule is: go as light as you can; that
is, don’t carry an ounce more stuff than is necessary. Even a man’s
rifle is apt to get in his way when he has to scramble over windfalls,
or slump between big bowlders of rock, which a’most tear the clothes
off his back. And we may have to do some pretty tall climbing. So leave
all your traps in the tent, boys; I’ll fasten it down tight. There
won’t be any human robbers prowling around, you bet! Bears and coons
are the only burglars of these woods, and they don’t do much mischief
in daytime.”
The guide rapidly gave these directions, his breezy voice setting a
current of energy astir, like a wind-gust cutting through a quiet
grove, while he rolled his indispensable axe, some bread that was left
from the meal, and a lump of pork into a little bundle, which he
strapped on his back.
“Now,” he said, “if that trail should give us a long tramp, or if you
boys should take a notion to go a good ways up Katahdin, or anything
turns up to hinder our getting back to camp till nightfall, I’ve our
snack right here. I can light a fire in two minutes, to toast our pork;
and we’ll wash it down with mountain water, the best drink for
climbers. I could rig you up a snug shelter, too, in case of accidents.
A woodsman ain’t in it without his axe.”
To what strange work that axe would be put ere night again closed its
shutters over granite peaks and evergreen forest, Herb Heal little
knew; nor could he have guessed that the coming hours would make the
most heart-stirring day of his stirring life. If he could, would he
have started out this morning with a happy-go-lucky whistle, softly
modulated on his lips, and no more sober burden on his mind than the
trail of that moose?
[Illustration]