A MAD MOOSE
Johnny Thompson was tired. He was hungry, and was feeling down on his
luck. He had hunted the rugged hills since early morning, yet no game had
gone into his bag save one great white owl.
“I wonder where Faye is?” he thought to himself. “Hoped I’d meet her on
this ridge.”
He still hoped this. It was a long, lonely tramp back to camp, and he was
a sociable being. Besides, he felt rather sure that she, like himself,
had met with little luck, and misery loves company.
On the morning of that second day after the momentous decision they found
themselves below the fork of the river, standing on the bank of a
tumultuous stream. Beyond this ice-rimmed torrent lay Gordon Duncan’s
promised land. How were they to bridge the chasm? It seemed certain that
Gordon Duncan was right. Once the stream left the high, rocky hills, its
mad rush must be abated. They might then cross upon the ice, or at least
on a raft.
But their supply of provisions was low. The way was long. Gordon Duncan
was not yet restored to his full strength. Having found a rocky shelf
walled in by nature on three sides, they decided to give the day over to
hunting. Gordon Duncan would make camp and prepare a supply of wood.
Johnny and the girl would hunt with bow and arrow. The ground seemed
suited for the chase. Here and there were treeless spots overgrown with
blueberry bushes. Where the wind had swept the snow, frozen berries clung
stubbornly to their stems. Ptarmigan might be feeding here. Willow bushes
close to the river bank showed fresh markings done by snowshoe rabbits.
Once during the previous day they had chanced upon a spot where a caribou
had come gliding down a steep slope to swim the river.
“He may have recrossed lower down,” Johnny had said.
So they had gone hunting, the two of them, but not together. A narrow run
led away to the left from their camp. It was agreed that Johnny should
take the left slope of this run and Faye the right. They might meet on
the ridge above.
Since he was ready first, Johnny had struck out alone up the slope. He
had heard nothing, seen nothing of the girl all day.
Little game had come his way. Once a ptarmigan had gone fluttering out
from a clump of blueberries. He had lost himself at once in tall brush. A
great white owl hooted at him. He had bagged him at once, not for food,
but because of his broad feathers. He must make more arrows. There was an
abundance of wood. Gordon Duncan had offered him steel points. He must
provide his own feathers.
The land where he stood was rough, rocky and rolling. In places dark
tamarack stood so thick in the narrow bottoms that it was impossible to
pass. To his amazement, as he stood there looking, listening, the sound
of a tremendous tearing and thrashing suddenly smote his startled senses.
No sound came to him save the crashing of brush and rending of branches,
yet even as he looked he caught a gleam of bright red among the tamarack
trees.
“That’s strange,” he told himself, involuntarily tightening his grip on
the six foot bow. “Can’t be a bird. Too big. I’ll see what’s going on.”
Catching at a branch here, another there, without a sound he let himself
down the slope. As he dropped lower the spot of color was lost to his
view. This did not disturb him. His sense of location was splendid. A
tree taller than its fellows, a branch twisted off by some storm, a pine
squirrel’s nest, these were his beacons. If he needed further guidance,
the surprising tumult continued.
Then of a sudden as he rounded a clump of trees he saw it all at a
glance. With a checked cry of surprise he stepped swiftly back to grip
his bow and draw an arrow.
His movement was not missed. For a space of ten seconds silence reigned
in that bit of northern wild. Then, as his bow sang taut a red-eyed fury,
a giant of that wilderness, a bull moose, plunged head on, straight at
him as he crouched for a shot.
A bull moose, interrupted in his display of anger, is a terrible creature
to behold. As the boy looked into his bloodshot eyes, as he took in at
once his huge head, his broad spiked antlers, his powerful neck, he
wondered about his chances for life, and in the flash of a second knew as
never before what a glorious possession life was. Yet he did not waver
for an instant. Another life was at stake, the life of one without means
of defense.
In that tense ten seconds before the moose charged he had seen that which
caused him to doubt the accuracy of his vision. The flaming red spot in
the top of the young tamarack tree was a red sweater worn by Faye Duncan.
He had not seen that sweater before. She had worn a gray mackinaw in
their travels.
But now, still crouching, he waited his shot. It must be well aimed, back
of the shoulder, a perfect shot, or—
Twang! The arrow flew. The next instant, with agility born of long
training, he dropped sideways and backward. He was not a second too soon.
The terrible impact of that powerful head, the awful rending of those
spiked antlers; what chance had a boy against these?
With all the force and fury of a crazed elephant, the moose went
thundering straight on.
With his senses reeling, the boy fought his way into a standing position
in the tangle of briars and young trees, then drew another arrow.
It was well that he found himself so prepared, for the moose, having
checked himself in his mad career, turned and charged again. This time,
only Providence could have saved him. Enmeshed as he was in the
underbrush, he was in no position to dodge. A small tree, directly
between him and the charging terror, saved him.
Blinded by rage, the moose charged straight into the tree. The sound of
the impact was like the dropping of a pile driver. The stout tree snapped
off at the roots. But the great beast was stopped.
It was enough. Again the bow twanged. A moment later the giant moose lay
beating the brush in his death throes.
“Well,” Johnny said, turning to the girl, who by this time had climbed
down from the tree, “that’s what I call close.”
The look on her sunbrowned face was deeply serious. “Yes, it was. I am
sorry to put you in such grave danger.”
“Oh, that!” he said, shrugging. “It wasn’t great. I could have climbed a
tree. Then there would have been two of us.” He laughed.
“But you didn’t.” The look on the girl’s face was still serious. “I have
to thank you for that.”
“It’s all in a day’s adventure,” said Johnny. “Mystery and adventure add
to the joy of life. Meanwhile, between us, we have a supply of food.”
“Yes, and such a supply!”
“We had better take as much as we can carry,” Johnny sighed. He was
thinking of the weary trek back to camp. “The part we can’t carry away on
our further journeys we can hide up in the rocks where foxes and
wolverines can’t get at it. It’s a good thing to have a storehouse to
which one may return.”
The girl agreed. Drawing her hunting knife, she assisted him quite
skilfully in skinning the great beast and preparing the meat for packing.
Once as she straightened up, he read in her eyes a question. She was
looking at the skin which he thought of only as waste product.
“I’ve seen pictures of boats made of skin drawn over a framework of
wood,” she said.
“The Eskimos make them so. Large ones. Thirty-five feet long.”
“This skin is tough,” she said. “It’s large, too. I wonder—”
“Hate to trust it,” said Johnny. “Ice might cut a hole in it, then
where’d you be? Fresh water ice isn’t like salt water ice. Salt water ice
is crumbly. Fresh water ice is like flint. It gets a cutting edge.”
She said no more.
“Guess we’re ready,” Johnny said a few moments later.
Wrapping a great piece of dark red meat in a square of skin, he lifted it
to her shoulders.
“Carry it?” he said.
“Easy.”
“All right. Let’s go.”
He felt like a brute, loading a girl so; yet in future their lives might
depend upon that meat. Night was approaching. To return in the dark was
out of the question. And who could say what the little foxes, the wolves
and wolverines would do to that dead moose during the night?
So they trudged on with weary limbs, but light hearts. As the darkness
deepened there came over Johnny a feeling that was hard to analyze. It
was a pleasing sensation, and had to do with the girl. He was her
guardian, her protector. This day, with his bow and arrow he had saved
her life. There could be no question about that. The tree she had climbed
was partially dead. In time, under the mad bull’s wild onslaught, it must
have fallen.
“And then,” he shuddered at the thought.
“Do you know,” she said quite suddenly, “I didn’t do a thing to that
moose? Not a thing.”
“Except invade his territory in a bright red sweater,” Johnny chuckled.
“That was enough.”