A Canadian Moose Hunt 



almost out of sight. When the smoke cleared 

 he was gone. 



Neither of us moved. It was too frightful 

 to miss such an immense creature at that 

 range. We heard him crash up the hillside 

 and then stop a short distance back in the 

 wood. Then I knew he either was down or 

 had turned, unless he had found an open lum- 

 ber road, where his horns would make no 

 sound ; for a moose can go in the most mys- 

 terious manner when he chooses to be quiet 

 — but there was nothing quiet about this bull. 



Chabot declared that he had heard him 

 cough, but I did not believe it. I pointed to 

 the spot where he had entered the bush, and 

 a moment later the canoe grated on the beach. 

 There were the huge tracks with the hoofs 

 wide spread, and the trail entering an old 

 lumber road. 



All this took less time to happen than to 

 read, and yet it was now dark, so quickly had 

 night fallen. By straining my eyes I saw it 

 was 7 o'clock — just two hours after the first 

 bull was killed. Chabot wanted to go back to 

 camp, which was the proper thing to do, espe- 

 cially as I had now just one cartridge left. I 

 had only taken a handful with me that morning. 



