CHAPTER XV.
A FALLEN KING.
The hunter was the only one who slept soundly that night on the fragrantboughs. Nevertheless, the moose was on his mind. Again in his dreams heimagined himself back by the quiet, shining logon, listening to the ringof the antlers as they struck the trees, and to the heaving snorts anddeep grunts of the noble game as it tore through the forest to itsdeath.
The moose was on the minds of his companions too. Again and again theyawoke, and pictured him lying by the pond, where he had fallen,--a deadmonarch. They tossed and grumbled, longing for day.
Neal and Dol surprised themselves and their elders by being up anddressed shortly after five, before a streak of light had entered thecabin. But their guide was not much behind them. Herb had the camp-firegoing well, and was preparing breakfast before six o'clock. The camperstucked away a substantial meal of fried pork, potatoes, and coffee. Thefirst glories of the young sun fell on their way as they started acrossthe clearing and away through the woods beyond, towards the distant pondwhere the hunter had got his moose.
Lying amid the small growth and grasses, by a lonely, glinting logon,they found the conquered king, sleeping that sleep from which never sunagain would wake him. A bullet-hole, crusted with dark blood, showed inhis side. The slim legs were bent and stiff, and the mighty forefeetcould no more strike a ripping blow which would end a man's huntingforever. The antlers which had made the forest ring were powerless horn.
"Do you know, boys," said Herb, as he stooped and touched them,fingering each prong, "I've hunted moose in fall and winter since I wasfirst introduced to a rifle. I've still-hunted 'em, called 'em, andfollowed 'em on snowshoes; but I never felt so thundering mean aboutkilling an animal as I did about dropping this fellow. After his anticsin the woods, when he tramped out onto the open patch where I waswaiting under cover of those shrubs, I popped up and covered him with myWinchester. He just raised the hair on his back and looked at me, with away wild animals sometimes have, as if I was a bad riddle. Like as nothe'd never seen a human being before, and a moose's eyes ain't good formuch as danger-signals. It's only when he hears or smells mischief thathe gets mad scared.
A FALLEN KING.]
"Well, I was out for meat, and bound to have it; so I pulled thetrigger, and killed him with two shots. When the first bullet stung himhe reared up, making a sharp noise like a wounded horse. Then he swunground as if to bolt; but the second went straight through his heart, andhe fell where you see him now. I made sure that he was past kicking, andcrept close to his head, thinking he was dead. He wasn't quite gone,though; for he saw me, and laid back his ears, the last pitiful sign amoose makes when a hunter gets the better of him. I tell you it made mefeel bad--just for a minute. I've got my moose for this season, and I'msort o' glad that the law won't let me kill another unless it's alife-saving matter."
"How tall should you say this fellow was when alive?" asked Cyrus,stroking the creature's shaggy hair, which was a rusty black in color.
"Oh! I guess he stood about as high as a good-sized pony. But I've shotmoose which were taller than any horse. The biggest one I ever killedmeasured between seven and eight feet from the points of his hoofs tohis shoulders, and the antlers were four feet and nine inches from tipto tip. He was a monster--a regular jing-swizzler! A mighty queer way Igot him too! I'll tell you all about it some other time."
"Oh! you must," answered Garst. "You'll have to give us no end ofmoose-talk by the camp-fire of evenings. These English fellows want tolearn all they can about the finest game on our continent before they gohome."
"Why, for evermore!" gasped Herb, in broad amazement. "Are youBritishers? And have you crossed the ocean to chase moose in Mainewoods? My word! You're a gamy pair of kids. We'll have to try toaccommodate you with a sight of a moose at any rate--a live one."
Though they would gladly have appropriated the compliment, the "gamykids" were obliged to acknowledge that hunting had not been in theirthoughts when they traversed the Atlantic. But they avowed that theywere the luckiest fellows alive, and that the American forest-land, withits camps and trails and wild offspring, was such a glorious oldplayground that they would never stop singing its praises until a swarmof boys from English soil had tasted the novel pleasures which theyenjoyed.
"Now, then, gentlemen!" said the guide, "I haven't much idea that we'llbe able to haul this moose along to camp whole. If I skin and dress himhere, are you all ready to help in carrying home the meat?"
The trio briskly expressed their willingness, and Herb began thedissecting business; while from a tree near by that strange bird whichhunters call the "moose-bird" screamed its shrill "What cheer? Whatcheer?" with ceaseless persistence.
"Oh, hold your noise, you squalling thing!" said the guide, answering itback. "It's good cheer this time. We'll have a feast of moose-meatto-night, and there'll be pickings for you."
He then explained, for the benefit of the English lads, that this bird,whose cry is startlingly like the hunters' translation of it, haunts thespot where a moose has been killed, waiting greedily for its meal offthe creature after men have taken their share of the meat. Herb declaredthat it had often followed him for hours while he was stealthilytracking a moose, to be in at the death. And now it kept up the din ofits unceasing question until he had finished his disagreeable work.
As the party started back to camp, each one weighted with forty poundsor more of meat, Herb carrying a double portion, with the antlers hookedupon his shoulders, they heard the moose-bird still insatiably shrieking"What cheer?" over its meal.
"Say, boys," said the guide, as he stalked along with his heavy load,never blenching, "if you want to get a pair o' moose-antlers, now's yourtime. I ain't a-going to sell these, but I'll give 'em outright to thefirst fellow who can learn to call a moose successfully while he'shunting with me. I know what sort of sportsman Cyrus Garst is. He'll goprowling through the woods, starting moose and coolly letting 'em getoff without spilling a drop of blood, while he's watching the length oftheir steps. I b'lieve he'd be a sight prouder of seeing one crunch aroot than if he got the finest head in Maine. So here's your chance fora trophy, boys. I guess 'twill be your only one."
"Hurrah! I'm in for this game!" cried Neal.
"I too," said Cyrus.
"I'm in for it with a vengeance!" whooped Dol. "Though I'm blessed ifI've a notion what 'calling a moose' means."
"How much have you larned, anyhow, Kid, in the bit o' time you've beenalive?" asked the woodsman, with good-humored sarcasm.
"Enough to make my fists talk to anybody who thinks I'm a duffer,"answered Dol, squaring his shoulders as if to make the most of himself.
"Good for you, young England!" laughed Cyrus.
Herb turned his eyes, and regarded the juvenile Adolphus with amusedcriticism.
"Britisher or no Britisher, I'll allow you're a little man," hemuttered. "Keep a stiff upper lip, boys; we're not far from camp now."
A word of cheer was needed. Not one of the trio had growled at theirload, but the flannel shirts of the two Farrars clung wetly to theirbodies. Their breath was coming in hard puffs through spread nostrils. Afour-mile tramp through the woods, heavily laden with raw meat, was anovel but not an altogether delightful experience.
However, the smell of moose-steak frying over their camp-fire later onfully compensated them for acting as butcher's boys. When the taste aswell as the smell had been enjoyed, the rest which followed by theblazing birch-logs that evening was so full of bliss that each camperfelt as if existence had at last drifted to a point of superb content.
Their camp-door stood open for ventilation; and a keen touch of frost,mingling with the night air which entered, made the fragrant warmthdelightful.
When supper was ended, and the tin vessels from which it had been eaten,together with all camp utensils, were duly cleaned, Herb seated himselfon the middle of the bench, which he called "the deacon's seat," andluxuriously lit his oldest pipe. His brawny hands had performed everyduty connected wit
h the meal as deftly and neatly as those of adelicate-fingered woman.
"Well, for downright solid comfort, boys, give me a cosey camp-fire inthe wilderness, when a fellow is tired out after a good day's outing.City life can offer nothing to touch it," said Cyrus, as he spread hisblankets near the cheerful blaze, and sprawled himself upon them.
Neal and Dol followed his example. The three looked up at their guide,on whose weather-tanned face the fire shed wavering lights, in lazyexpectation.
"Now, Herb," said Garst, "we want to think of nothing but moose for theremainder of this trip; so go ahead, and give us some moose-talkto-night. Begin at the beginning, as the children say, and tell useverything you know about the animal."
Herb Heal swung himself to and fro upon his plank seat, drawing his pipereflectively, and letting its smoke filter through his nostrils, whilehe prepared to answer.
"Well," he said at last, slowly, "it seems to me that a moose is atroublesome brute to tackle, however you take him. It's plaguy hard fora hunter to get the better of him, and if it's only knowledge you'reafter, he'll dodge you like a will-o'-the-wisp till you get pretty mixedin your notions about his habits. I guess these English fellows knowalready that he's the largest animal of the deer tribe, or any othertribe, to be seen on this continent, and as grand game as can be foundon any spot of this here earth. I hain't had a chance to chase lions an'tigers; but I've shot grizzlies over in Canada,--and that's scarey work,you better b'lieve!--and I tell you there's no sport that'll bring outthe grit and ingenuity that's in a man like moose-hunting. Now, boys,ask me any questions you like, an' I'll try to answer 'em."
"You said something to-day about moose 'crunching twigs,'" began Nealeagerly. "Why, I always had a hazy idea that they fed on mossaltogether, which they dug up in the winter with their broad antlers."
"Land o' liberty!" ejaculated the woodsman. "Where on earth do you citymen pick up your notions about forest creatures--that's what I'd like toknow? A moose can't get its horns to the ground without dropping on itsknees; and it can't nibble grass from the ground neither withoutsprawling out its long legs,--which for an animal of its size are asthin as pipe-stems,--and tumbling in a heap. So I don't credit that yarnabout their digging up the moss, even when there's no other food to behad; though I can't say for sure it's not true. In summer moose feedabout the ponds and streams, on the long grasses and lily-pads. They'reat home in the water, and mighty fine swimmers; so the red men say thatthey came first from the sea.
"In the fall, and through the winter too, so far as I can make out, theyeat the twigs and bark of different trees, such as white birches andpoplars. They're powerful fond of moose-wood--that's what you callmountain ash. I guess it tastes to them like pie does to us."
"Well, Dol, I feel that you're twitching all over with some question,"said Cyrus, detecting uneasy movements on the part of the younger boywho lay next to him. "What is it, Chick? Out with it!"
"I want to hear about moose-calling," so spoke Dol in heart-eager tones.
The guide swung his body to the music of a jingling laugh.
"Oh; that's it; is it?" he said. "You're stuck on winning those antlers;ain't you, Dol? Well, calling is the 'moose-hunter's secret,' and it'sa secret that he don't want to give away to every one. When a man is agood caller he's kind o' jealous about keeping the trick to himself. ButI'll tell you how it's done, anyhow, and give you a lesson sometime.Sakes alive! if you Britishers could only take over a birch-barktrumpet, and give that call in England, you'd make nearly as much fussas Buffalo Bill did with his cowboys and Injuns. Only 'twould be aonesided game, for there'd be no moose to answer."
The young Farrars were silent, breathlessly waiting for more. Thecamp-firelight showed their absorbed faces; it played upon bronzedcheeks, where the ruddy tints of English boyhood had been replaced by aduller, hardier hue. On Neal's upper lip a fine, fair growth hadsprouted, which looked white against his sun-tinged skin. As for Cyrus,he had never brought a razor into the woods since that memorable tripwhen the bear had overhauled his knapsack; so the Bostonian's chin wascovered with a thick black stubble.
Neither of the youths, however, was at present giving a thought to hishirsute adornment, about which questionable compliments were frequentlybandied. Their minds were full of moose, and their ears alert for theguide's next words.
"P'raps you folks don't know," went on the woodsman, "that there arefour ways o' hunting moose. The first and fairest is still-hunting 'emin the woods, which means following their signs, and getting a shot inany way you can, _if_ you can. But that's a stiff 'if' to a hunter. Ninetimes out o' ten a moose will baffle him and get off unhurt, even when aman has tracked him for days, camping on his trail o' nights. Thesnapping of a twig not the size of my little finger, or one trampingstep, and the moose'll take warning. He'll light out o' the way assilently as a red man in moccasins, and the hunter won't even know he'sgone.
"The second way is night-hunting, going after 'em in a canoe with ajack-light; same thing as jacking for deer. I guess you've tried that,so you'll know what it's like--skeery kind o' work."
Neal nodded an eloquent assent, and Herb went on:--
"The third method is a dog's trick. It's following 'em on snowshoes overdeep snow. I've tried that once, and I'm blamed if I'll ever try itagain. It's butchery, not sport. The crust of snow will be strong enoughfor a man to run on, but it can't support the heavy moose. Thecreature'll go smashing through it and struggling out, until its slimlegs are a sight to see for cuts and blood. Soon it gets blowed, and canstumble no farther. Then the hunter finishes it with an axe."
Disgust thickened the voices of the listening three, as with one accordthey raised an outcry against this cruel way of butchering a gameanimal, without giving it a single chance for its life. When theirindignation had subsided, the hunter went on to describe the fourth andlast method of entrapping moose--the calling in which Dol was sointerested.
"P'raps you won't think this is fair hunting either," he said; "for it'sa trick, and I'll allow that there's times when it seems a pretty meangame. Anyhow, I'd rather kill one moose by still-hunting than six bycalling. But if you want to try work that'll make your blood racethrough your body like a torrent one minute, and turn you as cold as ifyour sweat was ice-water the next, you go in for moose-calling. I guessyou know all about the matter, Cyrus; but as these Britishers do not,I'll try and explain it to' em.
"Early in September the moose come up from the low, swampy lands wherethey have spent the summer alone, and begin to pair. Then thebull-moose, as we call the male, which is generally the most wide-awakeof forest creatures, loses some of his big caution, an' goes roamingthrough the woods, looking for a mate. This is the time for fooling him.The hunter makes a horn out o' birch-bark, somewheres about eighteeninches long, through which he mimics the call of the cow-moose, to coaxthe bull within reach of his rifle-shots."
"What is the call like?" asked Neal, his heart thumping while heremembered that strange noise which had marked a new era in hisexperience of sounds, as he listened to it at midnight by Squaw Pond.
"Sho! a man might keep jawing till crack o' doom, and not give you anyidea of it without you heard it," answered Herb Heal, the dare-allmoose-hunter. "The noise begins sort o' gently, like the lowing of atame cow. It seems, if you're listening to it, to comerolling--rolling--along the ground. Then it rises in pitch, and getsimpatient and lonely and wild-like, till you think it fills the airabove you, when it sinks again and dies away in a queer, quavery soundthat ain't a sigh, nor a groan, nor a grunt, but all three together.
"The call is mostly repeated three times; and the third time it endswith a mad roar as if the lady-moose was saying to her mate, '_Come_now, or stay away altogether!'"
"Joe Flint was right, then!" exclaimed Neal, in high excitement. "That'sthe very noise I heard in the woods near Squaw Pond, on the night whenwe were jacking for deer, and our canoe capsized."
"P'raps it was," answered Herb, "though the woods near Squaw Pond ain'tmuch good for
moose now. They're too full of hunters. Still, you mighthave heard the cow-moose herself calling, or some man who had comeacross the tracks of a bull imitating her."
"But if the bull has such sharp ears, can't he tell the real call fromthe sham one?" asked Dol.
"Lots of times he can. But if the hunter is an old woodsman and a clevercaller, he'll generally fool the animal, unless he makes some awkwardnoise that isn't in the game, or else the moose gets his scent on thebreeze. One whiff of a man will send the creature off like a wind-gust,and earthquakes wouldn't stop him. And though he sneaks away sosilently when he _hears_ anything suspicious, yet when he _smells_danger he'll go through the forest at a thundering rush, making as muchnoise as a demented fire-brigade."
"Good gracious!" ejaculated Neal and Dol together.
"Is the moose ever dangerous, Herb?" asked the former.
"I guess he is pretty often. Sometimes a bull-moose will turn on ahunter, and make at him full tilt, if he's in danger or finds himselftricked. And he'll always fight like fury to protect his mate from anyenemy. The bulls have awful big duels between themselves occasionally.When they're real mad, they don't stop for a few wounds. They prod eachother with their terrible brow antlers till one or the other of 'em isstretched dead. If a moose ever charges you, boys, take my advice, anddon't try to face him with your rifles. Half a dozen shots mightn't stophim. Make for the nearest tree, and climb for your lives. Fire down onhim then, if you can. But once let him get a kick at you with hisforefeet, and one thing is sure--_you'll_ never kick again. Are youtired of moose-talk yet?"
"Not by a jugful!" answered Cyrus, laughing. "But tell us, Herb, how arewe to proceed to get a sight of this 'Jabberwock' alive?"
"If to-morrow night happens to be dead calm, I might try to call oneup," answered the guide. "There's a pretty good calling-place near thesouth end of the lake. As this is the height of the season, we might getan answer there. We'll try it, anyhow, if you're willing."
"Willing! I should say we are!" answered Garst. "You're our captain now,Herb, and it's a case of 'Follow my leader!' Take us anywhere you like,through jungles or mud-swamps. We won't kick at hardships if we can onlyget a good look at his mooseship. Up to the present, except for that onemoonlight peep, he has always dodged me like a phantom."
"Are you going to be satisfied with a look?" The guide's eyes narrowedinto two long slits, on which the firelight quivered, as he gazedquizzically down upon Cyrus. "If the moose comes within reach of ourshots, ain't anybody going to pump lead into him? Or is he to get offagain scot-free? I've got my moose for this season, and I darsn't sendmy bullets through the law by dropping another, so I can't do theshooting."
"My friends can please themselves," said the Bostonian, glancing at theEnglish lads. "For my own part I'll be better pleased if Mr. Moosemanages to keep a whole skin. Our grand game is getting scarce enough; Idon't want to lessen it. I once saw the last persecuted deer in acounty, after it had been badgered and wounded by men and dogs, limp offto die alone in its native haunts. The sight cured me of bloodthirst."
"I guess 'twould be enough to cure any man," responded Herb. "And wedon't want meat, so this time we won't shoot our moose after we'vetricked him. Good land! I wouldn't like any fellow to imitate the callof my best girl, that he might put a bullet through me. Come, boys, it'spretty late; let's fix our fire, and turn in."