4 RECREATION. 
was measured off, and it did snow be- 
fore night; a gentle, sifting fall that 
made good tracking. It ceased snow- 
ing after sundown, and camp was 
made. Next morning all impedimenta 
were stowed in a hastily constructed 
cache, and progress was resumed in 
light marching order. The log of the 
second day may be written with one 
word; tramp. It was dryly mono- 
tonous. Tired? That Indian, Gros 
Jean, could keep up a steady push for 
2 days beyond forever, and then some. 
Through thickets, over rocks and ad- 
verse tangles of logs, tearing through 
heart-breaking masses of jagged dead 
limbs and biting briars in the brule; 
up precipitous boulders, clinging to 
roots and jutting crags I toiled, until 
bailed out of both ambition and wind. 
No man ever got a moose who did not 
earn him. 
How far did we go? Gros Jean 
said 15 miles. I should guess some- 
thing less than 500. What does an 
Indian, whose tendons are steel rib- 
bons, and who pumps wind with gutta 
percha bellows, know of miles? He 
measures distance by time, anyway. 
So, when old Sol was half way down 
the home stretch, that is, about 3 post 
meridian, we struck the fresh trail of 
8 moose, the tracks showing one giant. 
“Regard you, le premier!” said Gros 
Jean. “Ah’ll lak for see de horn of 
de an-mal dat mak dat beeg fit.” 
Moose tracks have been seen that 
would compare favorably with a New 
England pancake, but these looked 
bigger than a full moon through a 
September haze. 
“Arrete donc,” said the Indian. 
We stopped, and there, under the 
snow-laden branches of a giant fir, 
browsed a cow moose, broadside on, 
not 30 yards away. We stood. The 
cow stood. Did I shoot? “TI gass not, 
yes, I gass not,” as my Franco-Indian 
would say. There were no horns on 
that head, and we were not out for 
meat. Besides, my permit said only 
one more moose. She slowly made 
off, and, not long after, the spoor of 
the “premier” separated from the 
others, trailing through a ravine. We 
followed in a circling course a while, 
when the guide stopped, and, pointing 
at the dipping sun, “De moose will 
soon mak’ lie down for de sleep,” he 
said. ‘Soon com’ dark. What you 
goin’ do about? Camp in snow 
wit’out blanket? No? Bon! We go 
back. She’s only 6 mile straight. 
To-morrow on de morn we tak’ h’up 
dis-a-track an’ fin’ bull.” 
That back pedal trip to the base of 
supplies was nerve wrenching. The 
advance and retrograde movements of 
that day reminded me of a bit of an- 
cient literature anent the King of 
France, who, on an occasion, marched 
up a certain hill to do dire things, only 
to about face on the summit and 
march down again. Supperless I 
tumbled into blankets under a rude 
brush shack and slept the dreamless 
sleep of overtaxed muscles, when a 
guttural voice and heavy hand shocked 
me into conscious being. 
‘Mos’ come day; we go for de 
moose,” said the voice. 
ae n the moose!” 
But only for a moment did tired 
nature revolt. Hope and ambition, 
twin spurs to all great deeds, returned 
with a copious draught of skitty- 
waugh-boo (Injun for rum), a smart 
rubbing of the face with snow, and a 
hastily prepared snack. It was as 
murky as a smoke house, and I would 
have made for the North pole or any 
unmapped locality but for the guide. 
Following him automatically I lurched 
along until, just as the dawn with 
faint pink splashes began to blush in 
the East, we came on the _ hoof 
tracks at the point where the premier 
had separated from the rest of the 
herd the previous day. The halfbreed, 
who had not fired a linguistic shot for 
nearly 3 hours, then delivered himself: 
“Now we leave de moos’ mark. 
We go dis-a-way,” waving his hand 
in a different direction. “We shall 
fin’ heem or de track jus’ all de sam’, 
but we save seex t’ree mile, mebbe.” 

