n6 MOOSE HUNTING IN THE BACKWOODS 



The track was traced into a ravine or glen so common in these 

 parts ; but this one was unlike all the others in that it ended in a 

 cul de sac, the banks growing steeper as we advanced, and, as it 

 proved, ending at a steep cliff over which poured a miniature cata- 

 ract. The wind was blowing straight up the ravine. The animals 

 had scented us and had increased their pace, breaking into a trot. 



Rounding a sharp turn abruptly, we stood face to face with a 

 magnificent bull moose, standing a few yards in advance of the cow 

 and calf as if to shield them from attack. I immediately fired, as 

 the animal had lowered his head ominously. My shot, however, 

 fell low. Failing to penetrate the forehead and reach the brain, it 

 shattered the jaws of the moose and aroused the full depths of his 

 fury. As the great beast came crashing along I again got a shot, 

 with which, however, I failed to stop him, and then we both sprang 

 aside to seek shelter. Suddenly the Indian slipped and fell heavily. 

 The mane of the moose stood out straight on end, and his eyes blazed 

 as he strode towards the prostrate man. Quick as a flash the Indian 

 drew out fijom its sheath the long Indian blade, sharp as a razor, 

 which always dangles at a hunter's belt. Springing up even appar- 

 ently while being trampled and gored, he managed to drive the keen 

 weapon right home to the great beast's heart. Then he sank back 

 unconscious, while I, having reloaded, gave the moose the finishing 

 touch. He hardly needed this, though, for already his huge bulk 

 was tottering, and suddenly, with an expiring groan, he collapsed 

 in a heap, and his great brown antlers smote the ground heavily. 



Then came a moment of dreadful suspense. W-).s the Indian 

 a mangled piece of human wreckage ? No, thank God ! He raises 

 his head, throws his long black hair away from his eyebrows, and leans 

 on an elbow. Then he brushes aside the overhanging shrubbery, 

 stands erect, and limps hurriedly towards me. 



That Indian, Joe, still carries his birch-bark canoe up among the 

 lakes and rivers of New Brunswick. He still takes solitary trapping 

 journeys in the depth of the savage winters ; he still exchanges his 

 hard-earned pelts of lucifee and sable and bears for groceries and 

 fiery rum at the tiny village at the mouth of the river ; and many 

 a time since has he wreaked dire vengeance on the antlered moose. 



