THE BATTLE OF THE MONARCHS.
The boys understood at once their danger. Happily for them, however,
the situation was quickly changed by a short, hoarse, rasping roar
from the larger moose. This cry, which made the young hunters tremble,
brought from the other animal an answer even more terrific, leaving no
doubt of his acceptance of the challenge.
What followed baffles detailed description. Renewed splashing came
from the edge of the pond. The big, staring eyes of the second moose
glowered with rage and jealousy, his teeth champed together with a
harsh, grating sound, his hair stood erect, while he lowered his horns
so the points of his mighty head stood out in front like the lance of a
doughty knight of old. Then his ponderous form shot through the bushes,
immediately following which the breathless listeners heard another
splash of water, another grunt of defiance, a clash, like the ringing
of many swords, and the battle of the monarchs was begun.
The scene that succeeded was one never to be forgotten by the
witnesses. It was evidently from the start a combat to the death, and
its whole aspect was appalling. The clashing of their huge antlers
could have been heard for miles on that clear, still, frosty night.
Reeling back from the first shock, the furious antagonists rallied with
redoubled vigour, swaying from side to side, twisting their ponderous
necks, each striving with limb and body, head and antlers, to overpower
his rival.
Such a struggle could not last long. Soon the smaller moose was pushed
back toward the shore of the pond, whose water was churned into foam
by the combatants. It was already evident that the other was to be
the victor. Then, above the clashing of the terrible horns, sounded a
bellow of pain. The huge antlers of one of the opposing monarchs was
now crimsoned with blood. The next moment, with another roar of rage
and suffering, the other staggered sidewise, and then was hurled to the
ground with a shock which made the earth tremble for rods away.
With a grunt of triumph the victorious brute, shaking aloft his cruel,
reeking horns, looked around, as if expecting another enemy ready for
him. Save for his heavy breathing, not a sound broke the stillness of
the scene. As far as the little group of spectators could see, the
fallen monarch lay perfectly still.
The victor stood under the edge of the forest overhanging the pond,
where the bars of moonlight showed his gigantic form plainly to the
concealed hunters.
“He scents us!” whispered the Woodranger. “He’ll find us in a jiffy,
onless he takes it into his head to go away, which it ain’t at all
likely he will do in his ugly mood. No, he won’t run off now, and we
don’t want him to if he would. Stand firm, lads, and when I give the
word fire. Don’t waste your powder.”
The big animal had begun to roll its heavy head, and show signs of
greater uneasiness.
“It’s too far to resk a shot,” muttered the Woodranger, but not loud
enough to be heard any distance. “The time to take him will be when he
crosses that bar o’ moonlight yonder. Norman, hold your shot. ’Twon’t
be best for all to fire at first, as one can ne’er tell what a bullet
is going to do with a moose. Be ready for the signal, Rob, and kiver
that dark spot behind the fore leg. Johnny and Billy follow. Now for an
amazement!”
As he finished speaking in his low tone, the forester drew the barrel
of his rifle across one of the small hemlocks, making a noise like the
scraping of a moose’s horn against a tree.
He had no sooner done this than the moose, evidently believing it to
be the movement of another rival, gave a deep grunt, and started
noiselessly toward the little group in the thicket. Knowing that the
critical moment was at hand, the boys clutched their weapons with
firmer holds, and the three who were to fire at the Woodranger’s signal
raised themselves, as silently as possible, on one knee, and held their
rifles in readiness for the word.
“When his shoulder comes under the moonlight,” whispered the
Woodranger. But, as if knowing by some strange intuition that it was
the danger-line, the moose paused in the shadows of the deep forest
before reaching the little opening. For three or four minutes he stood
there peering into the space around him, listening for some sound to
guide him.
At last, as if intending to circle the dangerous ground, as is the
habit of the creature, before charging an unknown enemy, the moose
began to move off into the deeper woods. The boys felt their muscles
relax, though big lumps had come into their throats and they could hear
each other breathe. It was a disappointment to see the big fellow go
away without trying to get him.
The Woodranger was evidently as anxious as they, and he had no
intention of losing the opportunity of capturing the monster, or to
risk a more unfavourable situation. Again he scraped his rifle barrel
across the hemlock, and then he gave expression to a grunt, imitating
the moose so perfectly and sounding so near that the four boys gave
starts of terror in spite of their schooling. But this was forgotten in
the exciting scenes quickly following.
The moose stopped abruptly in his silent advance, turned sharply and,
regardless of the consequence, bounded forward with all of his former
rage.
Ever on the alert, Rob Rogers was ready for the monster, and as his
huge form dashed into the opening his rifle rang out on the night
air. A moment later the weapons of the Stark boys pealed forth
simultaneously. But the moon makes an uncertain light for the best
marksman, and if the boys hit the desperate animal, their shots did not
in the least check his advance. With more fury than ever he charged on
the little party in the hemlocks.
Norman, feeling that it was time for him to act, had raised his rifle
to take aim at the next favourable opportunity, when he felt a thrill
of horror at the sound of another moose at his elbow.
The Woodranger had already heard the cautious movements of the moose in
the rear, and its low, harsh grunt had barely fallen on Norman’s ears
before the forester exclaimed:
“Look to the other, lad! I’ll care for the creatur’ in front.”