132 THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES 



Many shekels and gladly would I have given to have 

 been on that moose hunt. Had I seen it I could have 

 told it. These men, that do it so well, never can tell 

 it. Yet in the days that followed I picked up a few 

 significant phrases that gave glimpses of its action. 



Through the crooked land of endless swamp this son 

 of the woods had set out "straightaway west." A 

 big track appeared crossing a pool, seeming fresh. 

 "No! he go by yesterday; water in track not muddy." 

 Another track was found. "Yes, pretty good; see 

 bite alder. Alder turn red in two hours; only half 

 red." Follow long. "Look out, Billy; no go there; 

 wrong wind. Yes, he pass one hour; see bit willow 

 still white. Stop; he pass half-hour; see grass still 

 bend. He lie down soon. How know? Oh, me know. 

 Stand here, Billy. He sleep in thick willow there." 



Then the slow crawl in absolute stillness, the long 

 wait, the betrayal of the huge beast by the ear that 

 wagged furiously to shake off the winged blood- 

 suckers. The shot, the rush, the bloody trail, the pause 

 in the opening to sense the foe, the shots from both 

 hunters, and the death. 



Next day we set out in the canoe for the Moose, 

 which lay conveniently on the river bank. After push- 

 ing through the alders and poling up the dwindling 

 stream for a couple of hours we reached the place two 

 miles up, by the stream. It was a big bull with no 

 bell, horns only two-thirds grown but 46 inches across; 

 the tips soft and springy; one could stick a knife 

 through them anywhere outside of the basal half. 



