Hunting in Many Lands 



We entered the forest foot by foot, Chabot 

 following the trail where I could scarcely see 

 to step. A few yards in and the track turned 

 from the old road into the thick bush, and we 

 knew the moose was near. A little further, 

 and we scarcely moved — stepping like cats 

 from tree to tree, expecting every second to 

 hear an angry grunt and have the bull emerge 

 from the impenetrable veil of night that hung 

 around us. 



At last we came to a windfall, and we were 

 for some time at a loss to find whether he had 

 gone across or around it. In lighting a match 

 with extreme caution, the light fell on a tall 

 moose wood stem about as large as one's fm- 

 ger. Four feet from the ground it was drip- 

 ping with bright red blood. The coughing 

 Chabot had heard was now, we thought, ex- 

 plained, and the game hard hit. We decided 

 to go back to camp ; for, as my guide put it 

 very clearly, the wounded bull would either 

 fiofht or run. I wasn't anxious for the first 

 alternative in the dark and tangled wood, with 

 one cartridge ; and the second meant a long 

 chase on the morrow. If we left him until 

 the morning, he would be either dead or too 

 stiff from his wound to eo far. 



