A MAINE MOOSE HUNT. 



2 5. 



that spasmodic motion which is a certain 

 indication of a fatal shot, trotted rapidly 

 around in a circle, and then went down like 

 a stone at the second shot. 



The cow looked up, at the first shot, 

 trotted a few rods at the second, then gazed 

 fixedly at the mud-colored apparition 

 which had risen from the bog so close to 

 her. Instinctively I brought the sights to 

 bear on her shoulder. " Oh, Bossy, how 

 easily could I kill you! " but I refrained and 

 told her to go and to take her promising 

 offspring with her. She went. 



I should like to back that caribou against 

 John Gentry, Star Pointer, or any of the 

 other crack trotters of the country, just 

 to take the conceit out of them. She could 

 easily distance them in the first half mile. 



We saw several cow and calf moose be- 

 fore we saw a bull. Kipp had an amusing 

 experience with a cow in the dead-water 

 of the Penobscot. The moose was discov- 

 ered feeding, and stood in such a way that 

 both guide and hunter thought it was a 

 bull. 



He raised his rifle and the sights were 

 settling to an aim which rarely misses, 

 when the high wind sent a tree crashing 

 to the ground near by. This caused the 

 moose to raise her head, and the act pre- 

 vented a violation of Maine's game law. 

 Charley then determined to cultivate a 

 closer acquaintance with Miss Moose. He 

 advanced in plain view to within 70 feet 

 of the animal and tried the French and 

 English languages on her in a conversa- 

 tion of several minutes before she repudi- 

 ated his advances and retired to other past- 

 ures. 



We got our first bull moose near St. 

 John's pond. We had gone only a few rods 

 in the canoe, Jack in the stern, Arkell amid- 

 ships, and I in the bow, when the guide ex- 

 claimed, " I see a moose, up near the head 

 of the pond." 



Leveling the glass in that direction I 

 saw my first bull moose. And what a sight 

 for an enthusiastic hunter! The slanting 

 rays of the sun glistened on his massive 

 antlers, and his gigantic bulk loomed up 

 in the distance, black as night. The blood 

 surged through our veins like quicksilver. 

 The moose was feeding on the margin of 

 the pond nearly 2 miles from us. A light 

 breeze was blowing directly from us to 

 him. No chance to flank him, for he was 

 at the end of the pond. No chance to at- 

 tack him from the rear for he was protected 

 in that quarter by an impassable morass. 

 The case looked hopeless. The plan which 

 offered the best chance of success was to 

 head the canoe directly toward him, paddle 

 swiftly and try to outrun our wind. 



Arkell held the glass. From time to 

 time he told the sweating paddlers what 

 the moose was doing. Soon we were close 

 enough to see every motion of the animal 

 with our naked eyes. When we were about 



80 rods from him he suddenly raised his 

 head and gazed steadily in our direction. 

 I hastily exchanged the paddle for the 

 rifle. Slowly and majestically the moose 

 turned toward the forest and the concert 

 opened. 



The vicious snap of the .30-40 alternated 

 rapidly with the heavy crack of the .45-90 

 until a dozen shots had been fired. The 

 moose had gained the forest. I looked into 

 Arkell's eyes and read the disappointment 

 which words could not express. The guide 

 tried to comfort us by telling us we had. 

 done well to stay on top of the cranky 

 canoe through the scrimmage, and by say- 

 ing he thought we had hit the moose. We 

 found no blood on the trail but decided to 

 follow the bull. One of us had to stay with 

 the canoe to signal the others back to the 

 pond. As I had already killed a caribou 

 I swallowed my desire to go with the 

 guide, and Arkell went. 



The minutes dragged slowly by. The 

 sun sank behind the forest-crowned hills 

 in the West. A deer fed within a few rods 

 of me, unconscious of my presence. The 

 shadows of night were beginning to creep 

 over the darkening waters of the pond 

 when back in the forest the sharp, whip- 

 like crack of the .30-40 rang out twice in 

 •rapid succession, the echoes died away, and 

 all was still again. 



It was a tired but happy boy whose hand 

 I grasped that night, when at 10 o'clock he 

 got back to the pond and told me the old 

 bull lay hors du combat in a little stream a 

 mile and a half from the shore of the pond, 

 where he turned to make his last fight with 

 his relentless pursuers. The shot which 

 took the old bull off his feet was the last 

 cartridge Arkell had with him. The guide 

 had nothing but a pocket knife. I don't 

 like to think of what might have happened 

 had the boy's aim been less true. 



That night I rigged up our broken cam- 

 era, and the next day we went across the 

 pond to take out the trophy. There were 

 20 points, 10 on each antler, perfect in form 

 and setting. The coat was beautiful, the 

 bell a foot long. He would weigh 1,400 

 pounds. Hurrah for the boy! 



After our scalp dance around the youth- 

 ful hero was ended we shot the game again 

 with the camera, but I regret to say all 

 our camera work on that trip was an entire 

 failure. 



When the game was skinned we found 

 both of us had put our brand on him at 

 the pond. Arkell's bullet had struck him 

 squarely in the center of the neck. Mine 

 had struck him in the thigh and had ranged 

 forward and lodged in his stomach. 



The high velocity and long flight of Ar- 

 kell's bullet had created friction sufficient 

 to melt its lead. On striking this went out 

 of the jacket and was found in splashes in 

 the muscles of the neck while the empty 

 jacket had cut its way to the neck bone, 



