THE RUN OF THE WOLVES 167 



&quot; By Goss ! &quot; exclaimed the Trapper, catching 

 sight of the Bull Moose, &quot; I miss me dat good 

 c ance for s oot.&quot; 



Throwing down his bag he started in pursuit, 

 picking up Mooswa s big trail. The hoof-prints 

 were like those of a five-year-old steer. 



Out of sight the Moose stopped, turned side 

 ways, and cocking his big heavy ears forward, 

 listened intently. Yes, Fran9ois was following ; 

 the shuffle of his snow-shoes over the snow was 

 soft and low, like whispering wind through the 

 harp branches of a dead Tamarack ; but Mooswa 

 could hear it all his life he had been listening 

 for just such music. 



Wily as the Breed was, sometimes a twig would 

 crack, sometimes the snow-crust crunch as he 

 stepped over the white mound of a buried log. 

 He had never seen a Moose act as this one did. 

 Usually they raced at full speed for miles at first, 

 tiring themselves out in the deep snow ; while 

 behind, never halting, never hesitating, followed 

 the grim Hunter, skimming easily over the sur 

 face with his light-travelling snow-shoes and 

 the certainty that in the end he would overtake 

 his victim. But this chase was on altogether new 

 lines ; something the Half-breed had never ex 

 perienced. Mooswa kept just beyond range of 

 his gun. A dozen times inside of the first 



