CHET AND THE MOOSE
"Phew! that was a narrow escape!"
Such were Chet's words as he drew himself higher up into the tree. The
big beast below had come up, and struck the tree a blow that made it
shiver from top to bottom. Had he not been holding on tightly the boy
would have been hurled down, and at the very feet of the moose.
The animal was full-grown, powerful, and with wide and heavy antlers. He
had been wounded in one of the forelegs, but was still able to stand.
Now he stood under the spruce, on three legs, gazing up at Chet
speculatively.
"Like to smash me, wouldn't you?" murmured the youth. "Well, I guess
not--not if I know it!"
Chet wished with all his heart that he had his gun. But the weapon was
out of sight under the snow, and the moose was standing over the spot.
What to do next, the lad did not know. The moose did not show any
inclination to leave. He breathed heavily, as if his wound hurt him, but
Chet was certain that there was still a good deal of fight in the
creature.
"Perhaps he'll keep me here all night," thought the boy, dismally.
Presently an idea came to him to call for help. Andy might hear him, and
come up with his gun.
"That shelter is a long way off, but it won't do any harm to try it,"
Chet reasoned, and expanding his chest, he let out a yell at the top of
his lung power. He repeated the cry several times, and then listened
with strained ears. No answer came back but the gentle sighing of the
rising wind, as it swept through the woods.
"Huddled inside the shelter, I suppose, to keep warm," Chet murmured,
dismally. "I might yell my head off and it wouldn't do a bit of good.
I'll have to try something else."
What that something else was to be was not clear. He moved from one
branch to another to investigate, then a thought struck him, and he
resolved to act upon it.
With caution, so as not to attract the attention of the moose, he
climbed far out on a branch of the spruce, and thus gained a grip on the
wide-spreading limb of another tree. He swung himself to this, and
crawling along and past the trunk of the second tree, moved to the end
of a branch on the opposite side.
He was now a good twenty-five feet from where the moose was standing.
Would it be wise to drop down in the snow and make a dash for liberty?
"If he catches me, he'll kill me--he's so ugly from that wound," Chet
told himself. "If it wasn't so awful cold, I'd stay here till morning."
Cautiously he lowered himself toward the snow below. He was on the point
of dropping when he heard the moose move. The animal came on the rush,
and in drawing up into the tree again, Chet had one foot scraped by the
moose's antlers.
"No escape that way," he told himself, and lost no time in pulling
himself still higher into the tree.
Thus far he had managed to keep warm, but now, as he sat down to rest,
and to study the situation, he became colder and colder. Occasionally
the wind drove in some of the snow, to add to his discomfort.
Presently Chet thought of another idea, and wondered why it had not
occurred to him before. He knew that all wild animals dread fire. He
resolved to make himself a torch, and try that on the moose.
Making sure that he had his matches, he got out his jackknife and cut
off the driest branch that he could find. Then, holding it with care, he
struck a match, shielding it from the wind as best he could, and lit the
end of the branch. At first it did not ignite very well, but he "nursed"
the tiny flame, and soon it blazed up into quite a torch.
"Now we'll see how you like this," Chet muttered, and started to climb
to the lower branch once more.
With eyes that still blazed, the moose had watched the flaring up of the
light. At first he was all curiosity, but as the flame grew larger he
gave a snort of fear. Far back in the past he had felt the effects of a
forest fire, and now he thought he saw another such conflagration
starting up. As Chet swung down he turned and limped off, moving faster
at every step.
"Hurrah! that did the trick!" cried the boy, in deep satisfaction, and
then, as he saw the moose plowing off through the deepening snow, he
jumped to the ground and rushed off to where he had dropped his gun.
Perhaps he could lay the beast low after all.
As luck would have it, Chet did not have to look long for the firearm.
The moose had kicked the snow from part of the barrel, and the glare of
the torch lit upon this. In a trice the youth had the gun in his hand.
The moose was disappearing in the snow and darkness, but taking hasty
aim, he fired.
The animal went on, but Chet felt certain his shot had gone true.
Hastily reloading, so that he might have both barrels ready in case he
wanted them, he set off after the game as fast as the now heavy fall of
snow would allow. He was a true sportsman, and made up his mind that now
he had his firearm once again, the moose should not escape him.
As is well known, although a moose is one of the swiftest of wild
animals on clear ground, or even on the rocks and in the woods, the
creature is at a disadvantage in soft snow, because of its small legs
and hoofs. Its weight causes it to sink to the very bottom of every
hollow.
Chet had advanced less than two hundred feet when he saw the moose
floundering in the snow behind some bushes over which it had leaped.
"Now I've got you!" cried the boy, and advancing fearlessly, he took
careful aim and blazed away. The animal went down, thrashed around,
sending the snow in all directions, and then lay still.
Not to be caught in any trap, Chet reloaded once more, and then came up
with caution. But the big creature was dead, and the heart of the young
hunter bounded with delight. It was an event to lay low such a monarch
of the forest as this.
"As big a moose as I've seen brought in from these parts," he mused.
"Won't Andy be surprised when he sees the game! But Mr. Dawson deserves
some of the credit--he hit the moose first."
What to do with his prize Chet did not know. To haul it to the temporary
camp alone, and through such deep snow, was impossible. And if he left
it where it was, some wolves or other wild beasts might get at it.
"I'll kick the snow over it, and let it go at that," he finally decided.
"It's time I got back. It's so dark it won't be long before I can't see
a thing."
Sticking his torch in the snow, he made a mound over the game, and on
top stuck a stick with his handkerchief tied to it. Then he retraced his
steps to the clump of spruces, and searched once again for the blazes he
had made on the trees.
At last, just as he was about to shoot off his gun as a signal of
distress, he found one of the blazes, and a minute later discovered
another. He now had the proper direction in mind, and set off as rapidly
as his weary limbs and the ever-increasing depth of snow would permit.
"Hullo, Chet! Where are you?"
It was a call from Andy, sounding out just as the young hunter came in
sight of the campfire. Andy was growing anxious, and had come forth from
the shelter several times in an endeavor to locate his chum.
"Here I am," was the answer. "Christopher, but I'm tired!"
"Any luck?"
"A little. How are those for wild turkeys?"
"Fine! Now we'll have a good breakfast, anyway."
"How is Mr. Dawson?"
"He says he feels pretty easy. But his ankle is badly swollen. Say, he's
a splendid man, and one of the greatest hunters you ever heard of, Chet.
And he's rich, too--he owns a ranch out West and a bungalow down on the
Jersey coast, and a yacht, and I don't know what all."
"You can tell him I brought down the moose he wounded."
"What!" And Andy's eyes showed his astonishment.
"It's true. The moose almost laid me low first, but I got the best of
him after all."
"Where is the animal?"
"About a quarter of a mile from here. I covered him with snow, and put a
stick and my handkerchief over the spot."
"Did he attack you?"
"He certainly did," answered Chet.
Both boys entered the temporary shelter. Barwell Dawson was awake, and
he and Andy listened with keen attention to the story Chet had to tell.
"It must have been the moose I hit," said Barwell Dawson. "But I think
he's your game anyway, Chet."
"Well, we can divide up," answered the young hunter, modestly.
The tramp in the snow, and the excitement, had made Chet weary, and he
was glad enough to lie down and go to sleep. During his absence, Andy
had cut more pine boughs and piled them around the sides and on top of
the shelter, so it was now fairly cozy, although not nearly as good as a
cabin would have been.
In the morning Andy was the first to stir. He found the entrance to the
shelter blocked by snow, and the campfire was all but out. The snow had
stopped coming down, but the air seemed to be still full of it.
"We've got to get out of here, or we'll be snowed in for certain," he
told Chet, and then kicked the snow aside and started up the fire, and
commenced to get breakfast. They cooked one of the wild turkeys, and it
proved delicious eating to the lads, although Mr. Dawson thought the
meat a trifle strong.
The man who had had the tumble over the cliff declared that he felt
quite like himself, aside from his ankle, which still pained him. The
swelling of the member had gone down some, which was a good sign.
"I guess your uncle will wonder what has become of you," said Chet to
Andy. "I suppose he'll hunt all over the village for you."
"Let him hunt, Chet. I am not going back until I find out about that
timber land, and about what sort of man that Hopton is. The more I think
of it, the more I'm convinced that Mr. A. Q. Hopton is a swindler and is
trying to swindle both Uncle Si and myself."
"Well, it's no credit to your uncle to stand in with him."
"Of course it isn't--and I'll give Uncle Si a piece of my mind when I get
the chance."
"I don't think you're going to get to Lodgeport today."
"Well, it doesn't matter much. I don't think there is any great hurry
about this business. The matter has rested ever since father died."
This talk took place outside the shelter, so Barwell Dawson did not hear
it. Inside, the man dressed his ankle, while the boys cleared away the
remains of the morning meal, and started the fire afresh with more pine
sticks.
"We really ought to try to get out of here," said Andy, after an hour
had passed. "I think it will snow again by night, and it would be rough
to be snow-bound in such a place as this."
"I'd like to get out myself, but I am afraid I can't walk," said Barwell
Dawson, with a sigh. "A bruised ankle is worse than a broken arm--when it
comes to traveling," he added, with a grim smile.
"Supposing we took turns at carrying you?" suggested Chet. "I think we
could do it."
"How far?"
"Well, we might try for a cabin that is about three-quarters of a mile
from here. We'd be far more comfortable at the cabin than here,--and
maybe you could get some liniment for your bruises."
"Well, I'm willing to try it if you are," answered Mr. Dawson, who did
not like the temporary shelter any better than did the boys.
Preparations were accordingly made, and half an hour later the party of
three set off. It was agreed that Chet should first do the carrying of
the hurt one, and Andy brought up the rear with the guns, game bags, and
other things.