THE PASSING OF LA PREMIER. 5 
This is the proper time and place to 
kowtow to the woodcraft, or moose- 
craft, of the humble ranger and guide. 
How did he know that, by leaving the 
broad trail and striking off into the 
untracked snow, he would again meet 
either the clearly marked course or 
the animal itself, and thus save a long, 
stern chase? His own answer is best. 
It was his “bizi-nesse.’” A man 
brought up with bear, deer, moose and 
the like, keeps tab on their habits and 
doings. While resting a moment on 
a stump, pumping oxygen for that last 
final dash, between gutturals and shat- 
tered habitant talk, Gros Jean said 
things from which the following de- 
ductions were made: 
A moose often travels all day in a 
more or less devious course, but as 
night draws on, it circles around until 
it comes back near its old track, at 
which point it lies down for its night’s 
rest. In other words,-it makes a sort 
of loop at the end of this line, to finish 
its day’s journey. It is thus in a posi- 
tion, while resting, to see, hear or 
smell any person or animal following 
its spoor, and at the slightest hint of 
danger it is off. The Indian, calcu- 
lating the time of day, knew about 
when the beast would begin to loop; 
but he followed the turn in the course 
far enough to estimate the. sizeof the 
loop made by the bull, judging the 
whole circle by the arc traveled, so 
that, from the point where we stood, 
he could approximately calculate the 
direction and distance to be pursued 
in a straight line before striking either 
the track of the moose or its actual 
resting place. Nature taught, and un- 
skilled in mathematical lore, for he did 
not know a segment from a squash, 
and never heard of geometric arcs or 
subtending chords, yet following 
events proved the guide’s roughly for- 
mulated hypothesis to have been cor- 
Peet. 
Cautiously we made our progress in 
the untrodden snow. The ranger ad- 
vanced noiselessly, with neither the 
snapping of a dead twig nor the 
swishing of a limb. Imitating him, I 
also moved with caution, making 
noise enough, it seemed to one with 
nerves as tense as fiddle strings, to 
arouse the 7 sleepers had they been 
in the berth of the beast we were 
after. 
“°’Gardez vous,’ at length muttered 
the savage, lapsing into Kanuck lingo. 
“Vola! De track.” 
It was true. We had hit the trail. 
“Walk on de holes mak’ by de bull 
fit so de snow not mak’ crack an’ scare 
de game. She mus’ be ver’ close, 
mebbe!”’ 
For 300 or more yards the advance 
was made _ slowly, cautiously, pain- 
fully. Suddenly Gros Jean clutched 
my arm. 
“Le premier!’ he whispered, stab- 
bing the atmosphere in front with 
grimy forefinger. 
I looked. On the crest of a ridge, 
at least 400 yards away, lay the moose. 
Slowly lifting his mighty head, as 
if conscious that his habitat had 
been invaded by desecrating aliens, 
although the wind was coming from 
him, he sniffed the air with whistling 
nostrils as he ponderously rose to his 
feet. Ye gods, what a shape! And 
antlers! They looked like the spread 
of a full rigged ship. 
I choked off a nervous gasp and 
took sight. 
“Wait! 
the guide. 
We closed the gap perhaps 150 
yards, still stepping in the hoof marks 
and crouching behind low, bushy 
cedars. The monarch swung his mam- 
moth head in our direction, and leaned 
as though to lurch forward. 
“Now,” whispered Gros 
“Goin’ ronne, mebbe.” 
The crisis had come. All hardship, 
waiting and toil had led up to this 
crucial moment. I fired as steadily 
as I could, aiming behind the left 
shoulder. Thunder! I missed. I had 
not properly calculated the range. 
Quick as a lightning stroke the big 
ears flashed forward, the prehensile 
Mak’ near yet,” breathed 
Jean. 
