He put it down on the grass in front of the tent, where it was closely scrutinized.
“Same moose we saw this morning,” declared Bruce Browning, very emphatically. “Do you see that peculiar turn of the horn there? I noticed that on the fellow that towed us. Some scoundrel has shot him.”
“There can’t be any doubt of that, I guess,” admitted Merriwell, in a grieved tone. “What a magnificent beast he was, too! It is a shame. I hope the rascal will be caught and punished, but I don’t suppose he ever will be. This is a pretty wild country out here.”
“I tell you what,” said Hodge. “Whoever killed that moose will come back for the head. Those antlers are worth something, and he won’t want to lose them. How would it do to hide out there and see if we can’t capture him?”
“The only trouble about that,” objected Diamond, “is that we’d have to take the scamp before some justice of the peace and waste a lot of time in trying to get him convicted. Nothing is slower than the law, you know.”
“See there!” exclaimed Merriwell, who had been closely examining the head. “He was shot in the head, just back of this ear.”
John Caribou pressed forward and looked at the bullet hole. He carried a rifle himself that threw a big ball like that.
Merriwell did not know whether to reprove Hans or not for bringing the head to camp, and let the question pass, while they talked of the dead moose and the poachers, and discussed the advisability of trying to capture those slippery gentlemen.
John Caribou disappeared within a tent and came out shortly with his long rifle.
“Where are you going?” Merriwell questioned. “Not after the poachers now?”