THE VANISHING MOOSE. 



355 



the day, and return to camp. An experienced 

 Indian or half-breed can tell from the direction 

 and character of the trail about where the game 

 is. To him the woods are an open book, with 

 the tracks for words. 



The next day before sunrise the hunters are 

 off, and starting from a new direction make a 

 wide circle around the spot where the fresh track 

 was last seen. Presently the guide stops, and, 

 after looking earnestly at the ground for a mo- 

 ment, turns disgustedly away. The hunter ques- 

 tions him, and he points to the leaves. " Two 

 moose — cow and calf — two days old." Sure 

 enough, there are the two tracks, looking not 

 unlike cattle-marks, only rather more pointed 

 in shape, one large and the other small. The 

 leaves fallen into the prints show they are old. 

 Swinging the butts of their rifles over their shoul- 

 ders again, the two move on in silent Indian 

 file, winding now over the top of some hill with 

 an open glade of birch, maple, and beech, now 

 through some hemlock swamp ; walking logs 

 in preference to the ground, a feat easily per- 

 formed when one wears moccasins; now out 

 on some bridee in hideous contrast to the sur- 

 rounding forests. Mile after mile in this way — 

 the guide stoppingoften toexamine a trail,where 

 perhaps the blunted character of the prints 

 shows that some big bull has passed there many 

 hours before. Finally the fresh track of the day 

 before is found miles from where last seen. It 

 can be identified by the general direction of the 

 trail, and the number, sex, and age of the moose 

 that made it. All this is an open secret to the 

 guide, who grins silently as he points to the trail, 

 which the other had long since given up as hope- 

 lessly lost. Now it is time for lunch. A little 

 fire is built, the inevitable tea cooked, and cold 

 pork or venison eaten in silence. 



The hunter, when the halt was called, was so 

 exhausted that he could scarcely stagger under 

 the weight of his rifle. The rest and lunch 

 make a new man of him, and he takes the trail 

 again as fit and enthusiastic as when he left 

 camp. Now the real work begins. The track 

 is an hour or so old. The twigs crushed under 

 the heavy foot have scarcely begun to straighten 

 out, as they will in a few hours. Perhaps a little 

 snow still shows the clean-cut outlines that last 

 so short a time. The game cannot be far off, 

 and is apparently moving slowly along, feeding 

 on the tops of the moosewood, which grows 

 abundantly in their favorite haunts. 



It would never do to follow directly down 

 trail, for the moose would catch the scent. So 

 they circle down wind — that is, leave the track 

 and, taking a long swing round, turn up wind 

 again and approach the trail with great caution 

 at a point a mile or so beyond where it was 

 last seen. The prints now show very fresh. 

 Water, perhaps, from a puddle is still trickling 



into a half-filled mark. Other signs indicate his 

 nearness. He has stopped lopping the twigs, 

 and his uncertain and wandering course shows 

 that he is looking for a comfortable place to lie 

 down. The track is at once abandoned, and in 

 the same way as before a smaller circle is made. 

 Every step is studied, not a twig must snap, not 

 a bush be disturbed, not a bough scrape against 

 moccasin or gun. Foot by foot the hunters 

 again get down wind, and even more slowly 

 turn back. The moose is now in front, lying 

 down. He has himself made a half-circle on 

 his own trail, and is now to leeward of it, so that 

 anything passing along his back track will scent 

 the wind as it blows to him. Then, too, he is 

 lying facing his footmarks, and can see anything 

 approaching him from that direction. Thus the 

 necessity of not following directly on the track is 

 apparent. The hunters are now to leeward of 

 the moose, and are working slowly toward him 

 with every nerve on the stretch, starting at the 

 slightest noise, peering anxiously in every direc- 

 tion, expecting to see the huge beast rise from 

 behind each fallen tree-top. Every hillock is 

 carefully mounted, and the surrounding woods 

 are inspected. Panting with excitement, forget- 

 ful of the weariness and the long road home, the 

 hunter sees phantoms of immense antlers and 

 charging bulls, figures to himself a thousand 

 times the deliberation with which he will shoot, 

 just where on the shoulder he will " hold," and 

 sees in every movement of the spruce boughs a 

 dim and vanishing form, and hears in every 

 squirrel's chattering around him the sound of 

 departing hoofs. Thus on and on, praying for a 

 clear shot and a big pair of horns, till suddenly 

 the guide stops and looks reproachfully back, 

 and then turns sadly to the hunt again. A rot- 

 ten root has broken underfoot with a muflfled 

 sound so sHght that the hunter himself had not 

 noticed it. Fifty rods further, and for the last 

 time the guide stops and points to the bed of 

 a huge moose faintly outlined in the wet leaves, 

 still warm. "Too much hurry" is his only 

 comment. The broken root has done its work 

 and told its story to the ready ears, and the im- 

 mense creature has risen, and, stepping over a 

 log some three feet thick without touching it, 

 has passed noiselessly into the dense bush from 

 under the very eyes of his pursuers. 



Then comes the long tramp back to camp 

 in the growing dusk. Tired out and disgusted 

 with hunting, they pick their way through the 

 woods by some short cut which the guide finds 

 and follows with the instinct of a hound, until 

 at length the welcome gleam of the camp-fire 

 is seen. Back at last, they eat a hasty supper 

 and sink into a dreamless sleep, only to waken 

 on the morrow with fresh determination to find 

 more tracks. So the hunt goes on, until at last 

 the stalk is successful, and the game is started 



