“You want to go slow, my boy, about handling things that you never saw before. I wouldn’t like to say what would have happened to the lot of you, once this dropped into that red-hot fire. Many a fool miner has been blown to atoms because he tried to dry damp dynamite out in an oven, and let it get too hot. Better ask yourself a few questions before you go to trying tricks with strange things.”
“Will you spend the night with us, Mr. Sheriff?” asked Thad, thinking that they ought to appear hospitable, as every one who goes into the great timber should be.
Besides, he rather fancied this Maine sheriff, and believed that a session in his company alongside the blazing camp-fire, would be both pleasant and profitable, as doubtless the officer could relate many things of interest to the scouts.
But the other shook his head.
“Sorry, but when we’re as close to the heels of our game as this, we must keep on the move. It requires considerable hustling to run down such a lively set as those three yeggs. And Charley Barnes, he know his business up here in the wood, all right. They’ve led us a lively chase up to now; but the longer we’re held off, the more determined we become to follow them, night and day, till we bring the lot to bay. They’ve got mighty little grub along, and we don’t want to let ’em have any time to hunt. Then perhaps hunger will help us out.”
“But if you’re going on right away,” said Allan, “perhaps you’d let us make you some hot coffee, Mr. Green?”
The sheriff looked keenly at him, and then held out a hand.
“Seemed like thar was somethin’ kinder familiar about your make-up,” he said; “now I know you, Allan Hollister. How’s the dad, and the little lady you call mother? I remember her well; and you too, as a boy who loved to hunt and fish as well as any lad in all Penobscot county.”
“My father is dead, Mr. Green; but mother is fairly well,” replied the boy, with a sad tone to his voice. “We are not living in Maine any longer, but down in New York state, where all these other scouts belong. But will you drink that coffee, if we make a pot for you?”
The sheriff saw that Allan did not seem inclined to say anything more about his own family; and so he allowed the subject to drop. But he did look inquiringly at his two husky deputies, who gave him affirmative as well as eager nods.
“Just please yourselves, young fellows,” he remarked. “My men look a bit peaked, because we’ve been hitting it up at quite a warm pace; and I guess now, they’d enjoy a hot cup right smart. I confess I wouldn’t object myself, seeing that you’re so pressing.”
The coffee pot was quickly clapped on the red coals, and would soon be sending out a fragrant odor. Thad meanwhile stated to converse with the officer, and by asking a few questions learned something concerning the robbery, of which the three fleeing tramp burglars had been guilty.
According to the sheriff, they were all hard characters, and had served time in various jails, for other crimes.
“If by chance you did run across the lot,” he observed; “you’d better look sharp, for they wouldn’t hesitate at anything, if they thought there was any fear of being held up. Remember that, boys, and govern yourselves accordingly.”
“Which I take it,” observed the listening Bumpus, “to mean, that we had ought to get them covered first, if we run up against the crowd.”
“Just what it does, and look out for tricks. That Charley, he’s as full of sly games as an egg is of meat. H’m! that does smell prime, son. What, condensed milk along with you, too, and sugar. I must say we struck a snap when we saw your fire here, after heading for this old camp-ground. That tastes like nectar, let me tell you: and warms a fellow up inside better than any strong drink could ever do.”
“Glad you like it,” said Thad; “and we all of us hope you come up with those three tramp burglars, and gather them in.”
After drinking several cups of the coffee apiece, the sheriff and his posse of two deputies declared that they ought to be going.
“We’ve got a pretty good hunch as to where they struck for after leaving here,” remarked the officer, as he shook hands all around, not forgetting the silent Indian guide; “and if they only stop over a day, so’s to get some game, why, we expect to surprise them right smart. Good-bye, boys and good luck. If so be we run across Mr. Carson, whom I happen to know, why, we’ll tell him you’re on his trail.”
Waving his hand to them, the sheriff walked quickly away, followed by his two men. And they were heading due north the last the scouts saw of them.
“Wonder if they’ll overtake that active bunch; or will the yeggs get across the line as they’re planning to do?” Giraffe ventured, as they sat there, talking over this latest development in the affair, though one or two of the scouts began to yawn every minute or so, and rub their eyes, as though growing sleepy.
“Nobody can tell,” Thad remarked; “but that Sheriff Green bears all the earmarks of an officer who generally get what he goes after.”
“That’s what they say about him,” Allan put in; for he had not been talking with the rest; something which the sheriff had said, possibly when asking after his father, had caused the boy to think of things that had happened in the past, which apparently could not be apt to give him joy.
By degrees the scouts sought their blankets under the canvas. Thad and Allan were the last to crawl in. The guides had made themselves comfortable near the fire, having blankets with them; and the boys noticed how they all made sure to keep their feet toward the blaze when selecting places for the night. It was the woodsman’s way, because the feet are the first part of the body to feel cold, when, during sleep, the blood fails to circulate as thoroughly as when one is awake, since the heart slackens its functions, in order to get rested for the next day’s labor.
Finally all was quiet. The night wind crooned among the trees; an owl hooted to its mate; but the scouts all slept calmly, with not a fear of danger.
“Eli says we’re now in the big game country, fellows!”
Giraffe was rubbing at his gun when he made this remark. They sat about a fire among the pines that bordered the river; and another day had elapsed since we last saw them in camp, at the time of the visit made by the Maine sheriff, and his posse.
“That sounds good to me,” Step Hen observed. “Now, as for myself, I never claimed to be great shakes at doing any hunting; but all the same, I feel a longing to see a great moose standing up before me while I proceed to bore him through and through with my trusty rifle.”
Giraffe laughed scornfully as he continued to rub away with a rag he had greased with vaseline.
“You just take it from me, son, though I’m not a great woodsman myself, that if you ever do shoot that popgun of yours at a full grown moose, the quicker you shin up a good tree, the better. For if you delay, he’s going to help you with his horns.”
“Popgun, nothing,” remonstrated Step Hen; “now, I’d just like to know what you mean by that? I took advice before I had my dad buy me that gun. It was Allan here who told me the good points about it. Just because you carry one of those old-fashioned, big-bore rifles, that carry half a pound of lead, more or less, you think a light thirty-thirty gun is a plaything. But, my friend, investigate, and you’ll discover that it all lies in the ammunition you use, not the bore of the gun. Ain’t that a fact, Thad?”
“It certainly is,” replied the other; “and I’ll prove it when I borrow that new repeating rifle of yours, Step Hen, to try and bring down my moose—when I get a chance to strike one.”
“Huh! don’t see how you make that out,” grumbled Giraffe. “This here gun is one of the hardest hitters ever made. It is some hefty, I admit; and in a long jaunt you’d come off much better than me, Step Hen. But what harm could your little pea-shooter do against a big black bear, or a savage moose, not to speak of a panther, or a wolf?”
“Looky here, and I’ll show you, old scoffer,” replied Step Hen. “Just take note of the cartridge that goes in the magazine of my rifle. Do you see how extra long it is, and how the powder chamber swells much larger than the end that holds the bullet? Well, the power is all there. But that ain’t all, not by a long sight.”
“Go on!” said Giraffe, fretfully, as the other paused, dramatically.
“Well, this is what they call a soft-nosed bullet. They’ve tried to prevent the use of them in war, because they are so terrible in their results. When it strikes even the flesh of a deer, it mushrooms out till it makes a larger hole even than your big bore. Yes, and if you asked Eli there, he’d be likely to tell you that if he had to choose between the two, he’d much prefer being hit by a bullet from your old elephant gun, to one from my pea-shooter, as you call it. That’s all.”
Giraffe listened, and frowned. He may have tried to look as though he did not believe half he heard; but apparently he had lost considerable interest in his own heavy artillery, for he was seen to quietly lay it down immediately afterwards.
“And Sebattis has promised to show me how he makes what he calls a ‘moose-call’,” remarked Bumpus, proudly; “being a strip of birch bark, curled up in a peculiar way like a long cornucopia; and through this the hunter can coax an old bull to come near enough to give him a shot. P’raps now, he’ll even let us hear what it sounds like.”
“Bully!” exclaimed Davy Jones; “I’ve always wanted to know what that could be like, when I’ve read about men calling the moose. Does he come to have a fight, Eli?”
“I guess that’s jest what he does,” replied the older guide, who was smoking his pipe contentedly by the fire, all duties for the day having been closed up.
“Then that must have been why Sebattis stripped that bark from the birch tree after we landed this afternoon,” remarked Step Hen. “I wondered whether he meant to write on it, the way you told us the Indians did, Allan; making pictures where white men would have letters, and drawing the story out. There he goes now, starting to make the horn, I guess.”
“This is mighty pleasant up here, fellows,” said Thad, as he glanced around; “all of you look perfectly happy, as though not a single care rested on your minds.”
Bumpus immediately shivered, as though that reminded him he ought to be ashamed of himself to be enjoying such things, with heartless disregard concerning the dreadful happenings that, for aught he knew, were taking place at his home.
“Ah!” he remarked, with a big sigh; “I wonder where they all are to-night. And I certainly hope from the bottom of my heart, my poor father and mother, and all my brothers and sisters ain’t a-sittin’ on the curb, without a place to sleep in. What if that foolish forgetfulness was the cause of it all? I’ll never be happy again, boys, never once!”
“Oh! there he goes again on that same old racket!” exclaimed Giraffe; who did not appear to feel the slightest sympathy for his afflicted comrade, simply, because he would not believe there could be any reason for the dire forebodings of Bumpus. “Now, if we only had a wireless outfit along, and Bumpus, here, could get in direct touch with his folks, I reckon they’d give him the merry laugh because he’s been so silly about that old letter. Why, chances are, it wasn’t anything much, after all. Perhaps your dad wanted to ask his friend the cashier of the bank to drop around that evening, and have a game of billiards at your house. Do please forget it; or anyway bury your troubles deep down in your own bosom, Bumpus; because, if you keep on frettin’ and moanin’ like you’ve been doing, the chances are you’ll spoil this outing for the rest of us.”
“Well,” remarked Bumpus, indignantly; “guess if you happened to be in the same fix that bothers me, you’d moan and groan too.”
“Oh! I’ve got troubles of my own, let me tell you,” continued Giraffe; “all of us have. There’s Step Hen, he’s wondering what we’re going to have to eat if we clean out all we fetched along, and the game keeps some shy; Davy’s been uneasy this long time, ever since, in fact, he fell into the camp-fire from the limb of a tree, where he was hangin’ by his toes when the rotten thing broke under him; Bumpus, you yourself are over your head in a sea of troubles; or you were a short time back, when you took that header over the end of the canoe, into the river. We all have ’em, old fellow; but we don’t go around whinin’, and tellin’ every one. Do close up. There, looks like Sebattis is satisfied with the shape of the horn he’s made. Let’s take a squint at it, please.”
The birch bark trumpet was passed around for examination. No one knew better how to manufacture the simple but effective moose call than the Penobscot. Even such an old and experienced guide as the Maine woodsman, Eli Crookes, was ready to admit that Sebattis stood in a class all by himself, when it came to enticing the wary but belligerent moose to approach, by means of insidious calls upon the crude horn, that breathed defiance one minute, and enticing sounds the next.
“See if you can make it go,” suggested Step Hen.
Accordingly Thad, who had it in his hands at the time, placed it to his mouth. He puffed his cheeks out, and Bumpus hastened to clap both hands over his ears, as though he expected to hear a strident blast, such as the old-time Highland chiefs were accustomed to making when they wanted their clans to appear, and attack the hated English from south of the border.
But it was wonderful what a miserably soft noise followed all these efforts on the part of Thad. He had never touched a moose call before, and did not have the knack of extracting anything like a bellow from the innocent-looking device.
There was a general laugh at his inability to make use of the call; even the two Maine guides joining in, though the result was nothing more nor less than had been expected on their part. It requires long practice to know just how to pucker up the lips, and send the wind whistling through the bark tube that becomes larger at the further end, until it resembles a megaphone.
So Thad turned it over to Step Hen. That worthy did his level best, and was only able to extract a miserable squeak that made Bumpus chuckle.
“Just try it yourself, and see,” said Step Hen, thrusting the call into the chubby hands of the stout scout.
And so Bumpus, feeling confident that he could at least excel the last attempt, since he was the bugler of the troop, and could play on any sort of instrument, took the call. He grew so red in the face with trying to send forth a clarion note, that some of the boys feared he would break a blood vessel. But not even a grunt followed. The horn refused to show any of it’s good qualities, even when a master hand at the bugle took hold.
Then Giraffe was induced to try, and with no better success than had attended Step Hen’s attempt.
“I don’t believe the old thing can make a noise at all!” declared Bumpus, aggressively.
“Suppose you ask Sebattis to show you,” suggested Allan; who might have done it himself fairly well, but did not wish to spoil the work of the Indian.
Accordingly, the dark-faced guide, without showing the slightest interest in the matter, took the roll of birch bark, and placed it carelessly to his lips. What the boys listened to then, was a revelation to them. At first, the sound seemed like several troubled grunts, and Bumpus was grinning with the expectation that it was going to prove to be a rank failure, when the call grew louder and more insistent, until it seemed to roll up against the mountain far away on the other side of the river like a burst of thunder; or in great waves of sound. Then it grew softer again, and finally wound up with another tremendous volume that seemed to make the very air vibrate.
After Sebattis took the call down from his lips the echoes swung back and forth from one side of the river to the other, gradually dying away in the far distance.
“My! but that was simply great!” ejaculated the entranced Step Hen.
“Never heard anything to equal it in all my life; and such a queer whoop too!” declared Giraffe.
“Look at Sebattis; what’s he sitting up that way for?” cried Davy Jones.
“Seems to be listening, fellers! Oh! I wonder what he’s heard? Is that an echo that comes stealing back from up-river way?” and Bumpus half started to clamber to his feet.
Then the six scouts remained motionless, as, with their ears on the alert for the faintest sounds, they heard an increasing answering call come stealing through the night air.
Thad reached out his hand toward where Step Hen had rested his new magazine rifle against a neighboring tree. He guessed instantly what it meant. There was no echo about that thrilling sound! Sebattis had sent out a challenge, and it must have reached the ears of a real bull moose that chanced to be within hearing; and this swelling roar that they were listening to now was his sturdy response.
Yes, it was surely a genuine moose that had answered the call; and no doubt he was even at that very minute lumbering along over the pine-covered slope, eager to accept the challenge that breathed in that strange medley of sounds!
“Whew! so that’s a moose, is it?” gasped Giraffe, being the first to break the tense silence that had fallen upon the campers.
“What a queer old sound,” almost whispered Bumpus. “My stars! but I guess he’s most as big as our old red barn at home. Is he heading this way, Sebattis, Eli, Jim?”
Bumpus cast a despairing look around him while saying this. Thad had an idea he must be trying to pick out a desirable tree which he could “shinny up” in case the moose raided the camp; for owing to his build Bumpus was not so good at climbing as some others, Giraffe or Davy Jones for instance.
“Just now that’s what the ole duffer, he’s a-doin’,” replied Eli; while the Indian guide only nodded his head, being a man of few words usually.
“Who’s goin’ to tackle him?” demanded Step Hen. “Now, don’t you fellers all look at me, just because I said that little rifle of mine was good for any animal that walked these here Maine woods. I gave up first chance to Thad long ago, didn’t I, Thad? You see, a feller that hasn’t had great experience at such things don’t want to rush in too fast. I promised my maw to be careful, and I mean to. As for me, you see, I said that Thad had to try out my new gun. The man in the store told me not to think of standing up before any big game till I’d practiced how to use the pump part. You see, if a feller got rattled, and needed to send in a second shot, he might try to work the thing wrong, get it stuck, and then have a fine old time. So Thad for mine.”
“So say we all of us,” remarked Giraffe. “We’d like to see what Thad could do. He hasn’t never had a chance at a moose. You go with Sebattis, Thad. The rest of us’ll sit by the fire here, and wait for things to happen.”
“No fire,” remarked Sebattis. “Eli put um out. You come ’long with me, Tad!”
Somehow the Indian could never get the hang of Thad’s name, and called him Tad; but it was rather a curiosity to hear him talk at all, so nobody ever objected, least of all the patrol leader.
“This is mighty fine of you boys,” whispered Thad, as he watched Eli and Jim proceeding to scatter the fire, and trample on the embers; in which task the other members of the party only too willingly assisted.
In a minute, almost, they were in darkness under the pines. Meanwhile Sebattis had baited the moose with another of his wonderful calls, thrilling the lads just as much as on the first occasion.
“Ugh! make me shiver,” muttered Bumpus. “Seems like there just must be a great big critter, with horns ten feet high, ready to rush the camp. Hey! don’t get away from me, Jim; I want to squat alongside in the dark. After all that light it seems rough to be left in the gloom.”
“Mustn’t talk no more, or sneeze, or cough! Skeer moose right bad,” whispered the younger guide, as he threw an arm across the fat shoulders of Bumpus, for whom he seemed to have taken an especial fancy.
And so the balance of the campers crouched there, with every nerve on edge, listening eagerly for the slightest sound, which of course was magnified a dozen fold, owing to the tension under which they were laboring.
Meanwhile Thad had followed after the Indian guide.
His very first act, before the light of the fire was extinguished, had been to hastily examine the small-bore repeating rifle which belonged to Step Hen, and which the owner was so anxious to have Thad christen with the first shot, at game worth while.
It seemed to be in splendid working order, and Thad believed he could depend on it to do the work, providing he aimed straight. There is a vast amount of result depending on the man behind the gun, whether in war, or in hunting.
At first it seemed pitch dark to the boy, as he kept close at the heels of the Penobscot Indian. That was partly because his eyes had been blinded from sitting there, looking into the heart of the blazing camp-fire so long. Now that this did not happen to be the case any longer, he found that he could gradually see better; until presently the dim form of Sebattis began to make itself noticeable just in front.
How silently the Indian moved along. Thad wondered whether this came from the fact of his wearing elkskin moccasins, or because he had been raised never to make a noise when passing through the woods; perhaps it was both; but Thad wished he could only emulate his example; and then and there he determined to possess himself of the soft-soled hunting boots of the same type as those of Sebattis, at the first opportunity.
He knew from the confidence with which the guide was advancing through the darkness that he must have immediately settled in his mind just where they should lie in wait for the bull moose.
And it struck Thad right then and there that the dark-faced guide was about as good a pattern for a Boy Scout to follow, as any one whom he could imagine. Surely Sebattis kept his eyes constantly on the alert; and never could be caught napping.
For instance, look at the way he lifted his head to listen some ten minutes before the sheriff arrived upon the scene, and gave the boys that rude jolt when he called out to them to surrender. Sebattis must have heard some slight sound that warned him of the stealthy approach of either human beings or game, and he had crept out of camp so as to be in a position to hold the upper hand, in case of any necessity.
Perhaps it was a little strange how all these thoughts crowded through the mind of Thad, as he was following silently as possible at the very heels of the guide.
Other things trooped through that active brain of his, too; for Thad had schooled himself to see and notice everything he could. For instance, he became aware of the fact that they were heading almost directly up into the wind. That in itself was nothing surprising, for a true still hunter always looks to have the air blowing from the game toward himself, as in that way he prevents the keen-scented animal from getting notice of his approach, and fleeing before he can find a chance to send in a shot.
Yes, the night breeze was coming out of the north, and the moose was approaching from the same quarter. The last time they heard his echoing challenge it seemed much closer than ever, showing that the bull was advancing with little rushes. He would push on for a couple of minutes, and then halt to send out a call, and listen. Then Sebattis would proceed to lure him on with the most seductive calls he could extract from his wonderful birch bark horn.
So it went on, the two parties approaching one another at a speed which promised a meeting very shortly.
Thad felt his heart beating almost twice as fast as ordinarily. He did not like this, and sternly resolved to control his nerves. The party who expects to shoot big game must be able to aim straight, and keep his wits about him, so as to send in a second and a third shot, should they be needed; else he may find that the boot is on the other foot, and that it is he himself who is being hunted.
Fighting down this nervousness as best he could, the boy set his teeth firmly together, and was resolved to do all in his power to justify the confidence his comrades seemed to have in his ability to “do the troop proud,” as Giraffe would have said.
Another thing he noticed by this time. They did not seem to be trying to get to higher ground at all, as he had expected would be the case. On the contrary, Sebattis was following the upward trend of the river. Perhaps he only wanted to move as far away from the camp as possible, so that the suspicious animal might not get a whiff of air that, to him, might bear some sign of the extinguished fire; or detect uneasy movements among the scouts left behind, and who could not keep just as still as they should.
But somehow Thad had an idea there might be yet another reason for their keeping on in this direction, as if meaning to intercept the coming bull moose; and presently he found it out for a fact.
Once, twice, three times had the guide stopped to send out that strange sound that went reverberating down the river, until it died away in mournful cadence in the distance.
Then he came to a sudden stop.
“Here do, Tad; you drop down this way. Keep eye on top ridge up there. See um moose stand out ’gainst sky. Try hit back shoulder. No get, p’raps me shoot too. How that suit?”
That was more than Thad had ever heard Sebattis say in one breath since meeting the Old-town guide. But he instantly saw what the other meant, for Thad had the instincts of a born hunter in him.
From the spot where they knelt, by looking up just a little, they could see the bald top of a low-lying ridge close at hand, where it was outlined sharply against the star jeweled sky. Any bulky object as big as a cow, or even a wolf, would, if standing there on the ridge, be plainly shown against the heavens.
“I understand, Sebattis,” the boy whispered back; “and I’ll try to do you credit. Tell me when to shoot, that’s all.”
Then the two relapsed into silence. The last defiant call of the coming moose was just dying out. It had been fearfully close, and Thad knew that the animal must be less than a quarter of a mile away from them at the time he stood still to give that call.
Sebattis answered it, and Thad began to notice that he no longer sent out that vociferous challenge as before. He believed that the guide must now be imitating the voice of the moose cow, to tempt the other bull on so as to fight for the possession of a mate, which he doubtless lacked.
A few more minutes passed away. Thad imagined he could actually hear his heart pounding away within its prison, so loudly did it throb. He began to fear that after that last challenge the bull had become suspicious, and declined to advance any closer. But apparently the guide did not share in his apprehensions; for he continued to make those lower sounds, as though wheedling the other into coming on, and entering the lists with the bull who already had a mate.
Still there was no answering blast. What could it mean?
Thad was beginning to have a feeling of bitter disappointment and chagrin, when all at once he heard something that gave him an electric shock.
It was like the crackling of branches, or the breaking of dead bushes under the impact of a ponderous body. Thad knew now that the guide had not been mistaken with regard to his ability to coax the suspicious old bull to close quarters; for the moose was even then climbing the other side of the low ridge, and must appear in sight on the summit at any moment!
Strangely enough, Thad discovered at the same time that his nerves had suddenly become as rigid as though he were simply about to fire at a mark, to try the new rifle belonging to Step Hen.
This is one of the tests of a born hunter. He may feel nervous up to the critical moment, when he stiffens, and seems to be made of steel.
Thad believed that he was in condition to do himself justice when the proper time came to shoot. The distance was short, and although he would have preferred having a different kind of light than merely seeing a black object lined up against the sky, still he was familiar with guns, and could, if necessary, aim merely through instinct.
The floundering grew in volume. Evidently the bull was having some difficulty in pushing upward through the bushes that covered the other side of the little ridge, the existence of which Sebattis must have known before, or he would never have headed this way so confidently.
But the animal was certainly coming on, for the sounds grew louder all the while. And whenever he seemed to stop, from any cause, there was always that same tempting, wheedling sound to draw him on again.
It was a minute that the scout would never forget, since this was really his first attempt to bring down game of any great size.
Again there came a silence. Was the bull hesitating again? Somehow Sebattis had toned down his notes to a low murmur; but it was intended to be very enticing to the stranger.
And all at once Thad felt the hand of the guide touch his arm. He guessed that this must be meant as a signal to draw his attention to the fact that there was at last something doing above; and at the same instant the boy detected a moving object come into view over the top of the bald ridge.
Higher it rose until he no longer had any doubt that he was looking at the towering horns of a giant moose bull.
And in another moment the whole bulk of the beast was outlined against the starry heavens.
The critical time was at hand.
Sebattis no longer played upon his birch bark horn. He had dropped it to the ground, and doubtless gripped his old rifle so as to be ready to pour in a second shot, should his boy-companion fail to send his lead where it would strike a death blow. For Sebattis remembered that after all Thad was a lad who had never before looked upon one of these greatest of all American game animals on his native heath and that perhaps the sight might rattle him.
“Shoot!”
It was only the faintest of whispers, but Thad caught it, for the mouth of the Indian guide was just a short distance away from his ear.
He had already lowered his cheek to the stock of the little rifle, and his finger was touching the trigger. Almost through instinct, such as comes to one who has the blood of a hunter flowing through his veins, the boy judged where he must aim, for such a thing as actually seeing the shoulder of the gloomy figure was just then impossible.
The sight of that grand animal standing there with upraised head, listening eagerly for the faintest indication of the presence of those whose calls had tempted him to make this pilgrimage, was one Thad would never be able to wholly get out of his mind.
Then he pressed the trigger of his rifle, and its quick response to the invitation came as a pleasure to his ears. Hardly had he fired than Thad was working the mechanism that was intended to throw out the empty shell, and send another fresh cartridge into the firing chamber; and it spoke well for his ability to do the right thing when he accomplished all this without the slightest hitch; so that in two seconds he was ready to send in a second shot if needed.
Sebattis had not fired.
This was really the first thing that flashed into Thad’s mind, and gave him sudden hope. The second was that even though he himself had wanted to shoot again, there was no chance, for the moose had disappeared.
He expected to hear that crashing of the bushes again, telling how the wounded animal, for he knew he must have hit the moose, was rushing away as fast as he had come. But he failed to catch it.
On the contrary, different sounds came to his ear, which he could not understand for the moment. It even seemed to him that the brave moose might have really met with an enemy, and was fighting gallantly against heavy odds.
Well, that was just what must be happening; and the foe was one that every moose must sooner or later find himself grappling with; for it was the grim reaper, death.
Sebattis, with that wonderful instinct of his, had known instantly from certain actions of the moose upon being struck, that the animal had received his death wound. He understood that there was really no need of his sending in a second shot; and besides, he preferred that the young Nimrod should have the full credit of slaying the big bull.
Sebattis, for all he was an Indian, had all the generosity that marks the true sportsman; and later on, in thinking it over, Thad realized how much he was indebted to the guide for refraining from firing after he had done so.
“You get um, Tad!” exclaimed the Indian, with a touch of pride in his tone.
“Oh! do you really think I did, Sebattis?” cried the delighted young hunter, now trembling like an aspen leaf, for the crisis was all past.
“Come with me; see!” was the reply.
Eagerly did Thad climb that little slope. It was now all as silent as death up yonder. He hoped after all, Sebattis might not be mistaken, and that the wily old moose, although severely hurt, had managed to slip away. They would surely never be able to track him by the drops of blood he shed.
But now they were on top of the rise. Thad had brought along with him the little electric torch which he had purchased before starting on this trip to Maine. All he had to do was to grip it in his left hand, press a button, and instantly a brilliant ray of light shot out of the end. With this he could see objects as much as sixty or eighty feet away, and plainly at half that distance.
So now he flashed this light ahead. At first he failed to discover anything on the ground, and his heart seemed to rise in his throat with cruel disappointment at the thought that after all he had missed.
“Tad, see!”
It was the Indian who was plucking at his sleeve, and directing his attention over to the left. And as the boy quickly turned the light in that direction he was thrilled to discover the moose lying there on his side, and not moving in the slightest degree.
“Oh! I did get him, didn’t I, Sebattis?” he cried, delighted beyond measure at his good fortune; for it is not every hunter who can say he brought down the first big game at which he has fired.
The guide was bending over the fallen monarch of the Maine woods. His first inclination was to see where the fatal bullet had struck.
“Mighty good shot. Great little gun.”
He looked at Step Hen’s up-to-date thirty-thirty calibre rifle as though after this he must be a fool to go packing his own heavy tool through woods, and over carries, when one-half the weight would do better work.