The moose was already some distance from land, and forging ahead with powerful strokes; but under the skillful paddling of the guide the canoe quickly decreased the intervening distance.
It was worth something just to watch John Caribou handle the broad-bladed paddle. He dipped it with so light a touch that scarcely a ripple was produced; but when he pulled on it in a way that fairly bent the stout blade, the canoe seemed literally to leap over the waves. Every motion was that of unstudied grace.
Browning could not remain stolid and impassive under circumstances that would almost pump the blood through the veins of a corpse. He grew as enthusiastic as Merriwell.
“See the old fellow go!” he whispered, referring to the speed of the moose. “He’s cutting through the water like a steamboat.”
The guide rose to his feet, still wielding the paddle.
“We’ll be right on top of him in a minute,” said Merriwell. “Look out there, Caribou! He may turn on us. We don’t want to have a fight with him, you know.”
Caribou did not answer. He only gave the canoe another strong drive forward, then dropped the paddle and caught up an end of the canoe’s tow line, in which he made a running noose.
He stood erect, awaiting a good opportunity to throw the line. The canoe swept on under the propulsion that had been given it. Then the noose left Caribou’s hand, hurled with remarkable precision, and fell gracefully over the broad antlers. Instantly Caribou grasped the paddle and whirled the canoe about so that the stern became the bow.
“Hurrah!” cried Merriwell, half expecting that the moose would now turn on them to give them battle. “That was a handsome throw. I didn’t know you were equal to the tricks of a cowboy, Caribou.”
The guide did not answer. Very likely he did not know the meaning of the word cowboy.