Hunting in Many Lands 



and dozed again. At a quarter of 7 it was 

 getting dark fast, and in the north a black, 

 ugly-looking cloud was gathering. We might 

 as well go back to camp if it was going 

 to blow and rain, so I told Chabot to shove 

 off and to give one last toot of his horn, 

 just for luck. 



The air was still as death with the dread of 

 the impending storm. Chabot took up the 

 coiled birch, and the echoes rang out with a 

 short grunting call, which so much resembles 

 a man chopping wood. Before they died 

 away, there came from behind us, just to our 

 right, the unmistakable answering grunt of a 

 bull moose. He was probably on his way to 

 the lake, and our call merely hastened him 

 and brought him out into the open before it 

 was too dark to shoot. He was very near and 

 came steadily forward, stopping now and then 

 to listen. We could hear him plainly as his 

 horns broke the twigs at every step — once or 

 twice he lashed the bushes with them. He 

 repeated his grunts, ungh ! ungh ! every few 

 steps. He was so evidently reckless that, to 

 take no chance, I allowed Chabot to answer 

 only once — with the short call. I say short call, 

 in distinction to the long modulated call which 



98 



