242 THE MOOSE 



small-bore rifles. Carefully the stalkers spoored 

 this way and that, groping through the boundless 

 forest tract, until after a heavy, breathless chase, 

 they came up with the wounded bull, very sick, in 

 a clump of alders. Out he jumped, game to the 

 last, and with a gigantic spring cleared the scrub 

 bushes like a bird. 



The fast thundering rush slackened as a cavernous 

 hole of volcanic origin yawned ahead, and, turning 

 sharply, the hunted deer sped across the open to a 

 thick belt of cover on the left flank. 



They were like to lose him again unless one of 

 them did something. Pitka was badly placed, but 

 he had the chance of a crossing shot, and took it, 

 aiming well forward, knowing from experience that 

 one step of those powerful hoofs would carry the 

 moose yards ahead whilst the finger was pressing 

 the trigger. 



The bullet richocheted away among the tree- 

 stems, followed by two more haphazard ventures. 



Pitka, whose disgust expressed itself in silence, 

 ceased to follow. He knew all about wounded 

 moose, knew that the fine bull was strong enough 

 and courageous enough to stampede for miles. The 

 sportsmen might write him off* their bag. 



