324 BIG GAME FIELDS 



first like two flies crawling down the mountain 

 side. Now they seemed to double their pace as 

 they neared the first straggling patch of cover. 

 Then if an eagle had soared overhead he would 

 have seen one Indian with an olive-green head- 

 dress and one very cold white man stealing softly 

 up-wind like the fox after the ptarmigan. 



Mac was quietly and soundlessly slipping 

 through the low firs and I followed in his very 

 footsteps. A long wide circle and we were work- 

 ing our way up through the big spruces that line 

 the shore of the lake. There was no sound ex- 

 cept now and then the inexplicable rustle of a 

 dead leaf, or an elfish gurgle of water from 

 somewhere in the shadows along the shore. 



There were still a hundred yards to traverse 

 before the long gray point could be scanned, and 

 now Mac, with the very craft of a padded-foot, 

 tufted-eared, slash-clawed lynx, wormed his way 

 toward the scene of expectancy. What had hap- 

 pened? There stood the Indian as still as a tree, 

 one hand held high, and for seconds he might 

 have been a graven image for all he moved. Then 

 he made a strange sign that I could not quite 

 understand, but which seemed to indicate there 

 was more than one moose ahead. Then the sharp 

 crack of a twig had an almost electrifying effect 



