‘AN ADVENTURE WITH A BULL MOOSE.’
“I don’t know much about the lumber-camps; but I got this from a Restigouche lumberman, so of course it must be true.
“One day a woodsman, who had been on a long tramp prospecting for prime birch timber, rushed into a camp on the Restigouche with news that he had discovered a ‘yard’ of moose.
“A ‘yard’ it may here be explained, is an opening in the forest where a herd of moose has trampled down the snow and made its headquarters. The yard is always surrounded by young trees, upon whose succulent shoots the moose feed. It forms a striking scene—the animals lying about the space of trampled and discolored snow, while here and there a magnificently antlered bull towers above the rest, keeping watch; and here and there on the edge of the yard an animal is reaching aloft its long, prehensile lips to tear down its meal of green branches.
“Now, the news which the inspector brought into camp created an instant interest. Fresh meat was at a premium in the Restigouche Camp; and at the thought of moose-meat, which is a sort of beef idealized, every lumberman’s mouth began to water longingly. The boss was quite at one with the hands in this respect; wherefore it was not long before a hunt was organized.
“Only those men could take part who had snowshoes, for the snow was deep that season. So there was a small muster of five; but with those five went the blessings of the camp. Upon their success hung the hopes of all their hungry comrades.
“The wind, fortunately for the hunters, was blowing from the yard to the camp, so that it was not necessary to take a roundabout course. The expedition was led by the prospector, who was an enthusiastic hunter, and skilled in woodcraft.
“It was past midday as the yard was approached. The hunters separated, and closed in on the yard from all sides save that from which the wind was directly blowing. The leader, whose name was Story, had the longest way to go, in order that by the time he could get into position all the others might be ready and waiting.
“Presently an owl was heard to hoot twice. This was Story’s signal. The moose heard it too, and pricked up their ears; for the owls they were accustomed to hear hooted, as a rule, in the night-time. Then they heard the soft, hurried tramping of the snow-shoes, and the crackling of frosted twigs all about them, and huddled together, terrified, in the middle of their yard.
“The next moment five rifles blazed out upon them, and the hunters rushed in. Two of the creatures fell at the volley, and two more, fat young cows, were knifed by the nimble huntsmen; and the rest of the herd dashed wildly off, running up the wind, where they scented no danger.
“Now Story was in a great disgust. His shot had failed to kill. He had fired at the chief of the herd, a splendid bull, whose antlers he craved as a trophy. The bull was struck somewhere in the body, for he staggered; but instantly recovering, he had charged fiercely in the direction of the assault. Story had stepped behind a tree; and the mad beast, not detecting him, had continued his career through the woods, almost at right angles to the direction which was taken by the rest of the herd.
“Story gave chase at a run, loading as he went. The bull was already out of sight, but his track was ample guide. The hunter knew he had hit the animal hard, and looked for a speedy triumph.
“For an hour he continued his long trot, encouraged from time to time by the sight of blood upon the snow. The animal’s path led at last through a region of gullies and copses, and low, broad beech-trees. Suddenly, as Story was skirting the crest of a little ravine, from a thicket close ahead of him the great moose dashed out with a bellow, and charged upon him like lightning.
“The hunter had not time to check himself, but whipped the gun to his shoulder and took a snap-shot. Even at the same instant the snow gave way beneath his feet, and his shot flew wide as he rolled to the foot of the ravine.
“The animal was upon him before he could recover himself, and he thought his end was come. Dropping his gun, now useless, he drew his knife, and, just escaping one keen prong, he seized the antlers with one hand, while with the other he slashed at the animal’s neck. It was the depth and softness of the snow, with the confusion of bushes and roots beneath it, that saved him from being crushed at once.
“At last He looked Upward, and saw the Hunter.”—Page 221.
“As the moose felt the knife in his neck he drew back, and threw up his head with violence, intending to trample his adversary with his terrible hoofs; but the neck of the moose has tremendous power, and as the hunter clung to his hold with desperate tenacity, knowing that his last chance depended on it, he was thrown high into the air. He came in contact violently with a beech-tree branch.
“One thinks quickly in such emergencies as these; or rather an instinct, drowsy at other times, wakes up and saves us the need of thought. Story flung both arms around the branch, and with a great sigh of thankfulness, and possibly an inward utterance of the same, swung himself out of harm’s way.
“When his opponent failed to fall, the moose was astonished. He turned round and round, and tore up the snow, and bellowed hoarsely in his rage. The thing was inexplicable.
“At last he looked upward, and saw the hunter in the branches. His indignation waxed fiercer than ever, and he made desperate efforts to pull down the branches by seizing and breaking off their tips.
“How the huntsman chuckled and derided him!
“After a time the mad brute grew more calm. Then, to Story’s supreme disgust, he lay down under the tree to starve his prisoner out. The hunter had no gun. The weather was severe. There was nothing to eat. There was no way of stealing off unobserved. To crown all, the wretched man recalled a number of incidents showing the implacable persistence of the wounded bulls of this species.
“For perhaps an hour the hunter waited, vainly hoping that this particular moose would prove less obstinate than his kind, or would get homesick for the rest of the herd, or would die of his inward wound.
“But nothing seemed farther from the animal’s intention than any one of these things. It was growing dark, and the shivering captive began to realize that he would have to spend the night in his tree.
“He tucked his knife back safely in its sheath, and undertook to warm himself a little.
“His snow-shoes he had taken off long before, and had tied them to a limb, knowing that if they should fall to the ground the moose would at once make mince-meat of them. Then he proceeded to climb about the tree with the utmost energy and agility, while the moose, who had risen promptly to his feet, looked on with the most obvious amazement.
“By this means Story soon got rid of his chill. Before it was quite dark he selected a safe and comparatively comfortable spot where two large branches forked, and tying himself securely to the limb with his long scarf, he tried to go to sleep. It was a profitless undertaking, and after an hour or two of faithful effort he gave it up. He was stiff, miserable, hungry, and half-frozen.
“It had grown so dark that he thought perhaps he might descend the other side of the tree, and slip away without the moose being any the wiser. With what he fancied perfect noiselessness, he tried it.
“He was almost down, when there was a bellow and a rush, and the animal was almost upon him. He escaped just by a hair’s-breadth, and swung nimbly back into his refuge. He had no stomach for another attempt of that sort. He began to calculate how long it would be before they would miss him in camp, and come to look for him.
“The prospect did not cheer him. Known as he was for a determined hunter, his comrades would go home without him, confident that he would turn up all right when he had bagged his game. If he was not back by morning they would perhaps think something had gone wrong, and set out to look for him.
“They would have to retrace their steps to the moose-yard, and then, picking up his trail from the yard, might be expected to rescue him about noon. By that time, he thought to himself miserably, he might be frozen stiff. He decided to do something! But what?
“At first he thought of cutting a branch, fastening his knife to the end of it, and stabbing his captor with the improvised harpoon. But the beech-branches were too thick and crooked to suit his idea. He did at last, however, succeed in splicing a sort of spear about five feet long; and when he had got the knife lashed to the end of it all his stock of twine was exhausted.
“The spear was pretty satisfactory, but he of course dared not throw it; and the moose showed no inclination to come where he could be effectually and neatly despatched. The hunter struck his harpoon into a limb, and set out to concoct another weapon.
“By this time the moon was up. The hunter tore a little strip from his shirt, wet it in his mouth, and rubbed it full of gunpowder. This made a fair bit of slow-match, which he folded several times longitudinally, and then inserted in the top of his powder-flask. To the short end, which he left protruding, he touched a match; and then he tossed the flask down in front of the moose.
“The sputtering of the slow-match for a moment disconcerted the animal, and he drew back. Then, as if ashamed of his weakness, he sprang upon the flask and trampled it fiercely under his feet. While he was indulging in this interesting performance the powder exploded with a bang, and the astounded animal sprang high into the air.
“But though badly startled, he was not frightened by any means. He was shocked and scorched, and a little torn in the fore legs; but this only made him the more deadly. In a paroxysm of pain and hatred he dashed under the tree, and rearing frantically struggled to reach the hunter.
“This was just what the wily woodsman desired. Lying flat on a branch almost within reach of the beast’s antlers, he reached down and dealt him a blow in the neck. A second thrust went deeper, and struck a more vital part, almost under the throat. The blood gushed out in a torrent, and the hunter congratulated himself that deliverance was near at hand.
“Presently the great animal stood still, and looked about him with a puzzled, anxious air. He felt his strength going from him, and could not understand it.
“Soon he began to sway from side to side, and had to brace his feet apart to keep from falling. At last he fell. Then the hunter, stretching himself, came down out of the tree and stood beside his noble and defeated antagonist.
“Story was too weak and cold and hungry to think of waiting to cut off the animal’s head and hide it from the bears. He slipped on his snow-shoes, found his gun, and started back in haste for the camp. Before daylight he had reached the ‘yard’; and there, to his intense delight, he met a party of his comrades who had set out in the night to look for him.”