CHAPTER V.
“’Tis night upon the lake. Our camp is made
’Twixt shore and hill beneath the pine-trees’ shade.
’Tis still, and yet what woody noises loom
Against the background of the silent gloom;
One well might hear the opening of a flower
If day were hushed as this.”
A VISION ON THE LAKE.—NICHOLS’ BIRCH-HORN.—A MIDNIGHT HUNT UNDER A COLD MOON.—CALLING THE MOOSE.
Two days afterwards the Colonel and Hiram, returning from an excursion down the lake, drew their canoes up on the shore, and entered the camp looking as sorrowful and dejected as a couple of jilted lovers.
“What’s the matter?” I asked with alarm, for John Mansell happened to be out also, and the fear struck me at once that something might have happened him.
“Matter? you would not ask it if you had been with us to-day and seen the moose,” replied the Colonel sadly.
“MOOSE? YOU DON’T SAY SO! WHEN? WHERE?”
“Moose! you don’t say so! when? where?” I exclaimed, and in this frantic query I was joined by the voice of the younger Mansell, who at that moment suddenly appeared behind us from the woods.
The Colonel’s voice choked itself in a feeble struggle at reply, and stacking his Winchester against the back of the tent, he threw himself with a disconsolate air down upon his bed. But Hiram, less crushed by the evident misfortune, kindly obliged me with a graphic detail of the trouble.
“OH, SUCH A PAIR OF HORNS!”
“It was down on the second Mansungun Lake. We was paddlin’ up that stream to the right, where we shot the mink yesterday, and the Kernel was whippin’ the stream with his fly rod, when all of a sudden we heerd a crackin’ of the bushes, and then out on the edge o’ the bank stalked one of the biggest bull moose I ever did see. He’d have weighed more’n a thousand pound, Nichols, sure as I stand here. Oh, such a pair of horns!” and the guide’s arms were raised in a tremendous gesture.
The Colonel groaned, and raising himself on one hand he swept the other frantically through the air and gave us a magnificent idea of the spread of the horns from tip to tip.
“Then,” continued Hiram, “up started the Kernel, and slingin’ his rifle to place he pegged in the lead afore ye could count a brace o’ winks. Did the bull drop?—no—didn’t even give a quiver, for the ball cut wide. Did he turn flanks and tear off—no sir-ee; he waded nearer and nearer to us, till he was only eight rods off at the most. ‘Pepper him agin, Kernel, and fire low,’ I whispered, a-tryin’ to steady the canoe. Then bang! went the Kernel agin, an’ with a thunderin’ snort the bull wheeled ’round, and went smashin’ away through the woods.”
“An’ you missed him clean?” said John.
“No! not the last shot, that hit him somewhere in the neck, for we found his blood on the ground afterwards, but the first ball cut the alders three foot over his head. It was the queerest thing you ever see. Why! I was so sure of him, that I was figurin’ how I was goin’ to get the carcass back to camp, an’ smackin’ my lips over the steaks.”
“Oh! don’t speak of it! don’t speak of it! I shall never have such a chance again as long as I live; no, never! never!” and the Colonel threw himself back on his blankets with a groan.
I smiled for an instant. I could have “Pinafored” him then and there upon the spot. It was a glorious chance, but his gun was standing close beside him and I did not dare.
“But it’s something to have seen one, in his native wilds,” I remarked, trying my best to comfort him; “the animal will soon be extinct in this country.”
It was of no use, and I think that lost opportunity threw a veil of sadness over the Colonel’s mind for the remainder of the tour; at any rate, it was a delicate subject to touch upon afterwards.
“If moose so near,” said Nichols, one day, “me better make horn and call moose to-night; no try, no get him.”
We thought this a good scheme, and with the approval of all the Indian tramped off into the woods, and soon returned with a large piece of birch bark. Shaving the edges with his knife, he warmed it over the fire, and proceeded to roll it up into a great horn two feet in length, tapering it from six inches to one in diameter, and fastening the edges with wooden pegs.
Nichols and I were the only ones who went out on the hunt. Preparing ourselves after the evening repast, we stepped into our canoes at 7.30 o’clock. It was not a remarkably severe night, but as I knew I should be obliged to remain for a long time in almost motionless position, I took precautions to wrap up extremely well, and before I returned, the night chill had penetrated through it all to the very vicinity of my bones.
THE DECOY.
“Most ready?” asked the Indian, as in this clumsy and uncomfortable attire I rolled, rather than seated, myself in the bottom of the canoe.
“Yes; all ready, Nichols!” and throwing the birch moose horn into the craft we paddled out into the lake, with the best wishes of the rest of the party from the shore.
“If we hear a shot,” yelled the Colonel, with a look of dubiousness, “we will add an extra log to the fire.”
“And cut up the balance of our salt pork,” added Hiram, “for moose steak is a little dry without it.”
It was a clear night, and so still that the sound of voices and the blows of an axe at camp could be easily heard two miles across the lake. The bright October moon was gradually creeping down the western sky, but shone enough to light us on our way many miles.
“She shone upon the lake
That lay one smooth expanse of silver light;
She shone upon the hills and rocks, and cast
Within their hollows and their hidden glens
A blacker depth of shade.”
The tall hemlocks that fringed the shore threw their shadows far out into the lake, and in these reflections the guide paddled from point to point.
A slight rustle behind me and the Indian draws forth the long birch horn, dips it noiselessly in the water, and for the first time in my existence I listen to the weird sound of the moose call.
CALLING THE MOOSE.
Ugh—ugh—ugh—oo—oo—oo—oo—oo—ugh—ugh!
Three plaintive “ughs,” then a prolonged bellow, commencing in a low tone, increasing in power and volume to the end, and followed by two notes like the first.
It rolled across the lake in every direction, was tossed from mountain tops to the inmost depths of the forests, echoing and re-echoing. Then all was hushed, and we waited in silence the result. The stillness was something overpowering. We held our breaths. At times, however, it was harshly broken. Away toward the distant shore some sportive animal would splash in his gambols at the water’s edge, or a muskrat could be distinctly heard gathering his evening meal; then the prow of the canoe would graze the rushes or the lily-pads with a suddenness that was startling.
Noiselessly the Indian plied his paddle, and we crept silently on in the shadows. Again the horn was raised to his lips, and there came forth that strange midnight call so melodious to my ears. This was repeated again and again for six successive hours, neither of us exchanging a word during the entire time.
At last the stars alone cast their reflections in the glassy lake, and although from a distant mountain side we at last received an answer to our call, we could not draw the animal to the water’s edge.
We had paddled over ten miles. It was now 2 o’clock in the morning, and we returned to camp. I was too stiff to move, and the Indian lifted me from the canoe to the shore, while I realized that I had experienced all the pleasures of moose hunting—save the moose.
