And this was the kind of man that planned a trip for a party of four after the lordly moose. Moeran had, until that year, never seen a wild moose free in his own forest domain, and needless to say he was keenly anxious to pay his respects to the great king of the Canadian wilderness. He had been in the moose country many times while fishing or shooting in the provinces of New Brunswick, Quebec, Ontario and Manitoba; he had seen the slots of the huge deer about pool and stream, on beaver meadow and brule; he had spent more than one September night “calling,” with a crafty Indian to simulate the plaintive appeals of a love-lorn cow; he had heard the great bulls answer from the distant hills—had heard even the low, grunting inquiry a bull moose generally makes ere emerging from the last few yards of shadowy cover, and revealing himself in all his mighty strength and pride in the moonlit open. More than once he had lain quivering with excitement and hardly daring to breathe, close-hidden in a little clump of scrub, about which stretched full forty yards of level grass on every side—lain so for an hour with every nerve strained to the ready, with ears striving to catch the faintest sound on the stillness of the night, and with eyes sweeping warily over the expanse of moonlit grass and striving vainly to pierce the black borders of forest, somewhere behind which his royal quarry was hidden. Upon such occasions he had lain and listened and watched until he fancied he could see the moose standing silently alert among the saplings, with ears shifting to and fro and with keen nose searching the air ceaselessly for trace of his mortal enemy. The occasional distant rattle of broad antlers against the trees as the big brute shook himself or plunged about in lusty strength had sounded on his ears, followed by the faint sounds of cautiously advancing footsteps seemingly bent straight toward the ambush. Then would follow a long agonizing pause, and then a snap of a twig or a faint rustling told that the crafty bull was stealing in a circle through the cover around the open space before venturing upon such dangerous ground.
At last a deathlike silence for many minutes, and then a faint, far snap of twigs and “wish” of straightening branches as the great bull stole away to his forested hills, having read in breeze or on ground a warning of the foe concealed in the harmless scrub. All these were disappointments, but not necessarily bitter ones. The long night-vigils were after all rarely spent entirely in vain, for each brought to him some new ideas, or let him a little further into the dark mysteries of the great wild world's nightly moods and methods. The skilled craft of his Indian “caller;” the strange voices of the night that came to his ears, telling of the movements of creatures but seldom seen or heard by day, were full of interest to a genuine woodsman. And then the fierce though subdued excitement of the weird watch for the huge beast that never came, and yet might come at any moment full into the silvery moonlight from out the black belt of silent wood—these were each fascinating to such a nature as his. But still he had never once seen his long-looked-for game, though several seasons had slipped away and the month of July, 18——, had come and half passed by. Then Moeran got ready his fishing tackle and camping gear and vowed to find a good district for the party to shoot over the coming season, even if he had to remain in the woods an entire month. Right well he knew some of the likeliest points in New Brunswick, Quebec and Manitoba, the eastern portion of the latter province being the best moose country now available, but none of them met the requirements of the party, and so he decided to go into northern Ontario and prospect until he found what he sought.
In the region of the upper Ottawa River, and in the wild lands about the Mattawa River and about the lakes forming its headwaters, is a country beloved of moose. Thither went Moe-ran, satisfied that his quest would not be in vain. Early in the third week of July he and his Peterboro canoe and outfit reached the railway station of North Bay, on the shore of noble Lake Nipissing. While awaiting the arrival of the guide and team for the next stage of his journey, he put rod together and strolled out on the long pier which extends for a considerable distance into the lake. Reaching the farther end and looking down into the clear, green depths below, he saw watchful black bass skulking in the shadows, and lazy pickerel drifting hither and thither, in and out, among the great piles which supported the pier. To tempt a few of these to their doom was an easy task, and soon the lithe rod was arching over a game black gladiator and a master hand was meeting every desperate struggle of a fighting fish, or slowly raising a varlet pickerel to his inglorious death. In time a hail announced the arrival of the team, and after presenting his captives to the few loungers on the pier, he busied himself stowing canoe and outfit upon the wagon.
Their objective point was on the shore of Trout Lake, a lovely sheet of water distant from Nipissing about four miles. The road was in many places extremely bad and the team made slow progress, but there was plenty of time to spare and about noon they reached the lake. The guide, as guides are given to do, lied cheerfully and insistently every yard of the way, about the beauty of the lake, the countless deer and grouse upon its shores, the gigantic fish within its ice-cold depths, the game he, and parties he had guided, had killed, and the fish they had caught. He did well with these minor subjects, but when he touched upon moose and bear he rose to the sublime, and lied with a wild abandon which made Moeran seriously consider the advantage of upsetting the canoe later on and quietly drowning him. But he was not so far astray in his description of the lake. It formed a superb picture, stretching its narrow length for a dozen miles between huge, rolling, magnificently wooded hills, while here and there lovely islands spangled its silver breast. After a hurried lunch they launched the good canoe, the guide insisting upon taking his rifle, as, according to his story, they were almost certain to see one or more bear. The guide proved that he could paddle almost as well as he could lie, and the two of them drove the light craft along like a scared thing, the paddles rising and falling, flashing and disappearing, with that beautiful, smooth, regular sweep that only experts can give. For mile after mile they sped along, until at last they neared the farther end of the lake, where the huge hills dwindled to mere scattered mounds, between which spread broad beaver meadows, the nearest of them having a pond covering many acres near its center. All about this pond was a dense growth of tall water-grasses, and in many places these grasses extended far into the water which was almost covered, save a few open leads, with the round, crowding leaves of the water-lily. A channel, broad and deep enough to float the canoe, connected this pond with the lake, and, as the locality was an ideal summer haunt for moose, Moeran decided to investigate it thoroughly and read such “sign” as might be found. Landing noiselessly, he and the guide changed places, Moeran kneeling, forward, with the rifle on the bottom of the canoe in front of him, where he alone could reach it. “Now,” he whispered, “you know the route and how to paddle; work her up as if a sound would cost your life. I'll do the watching.”
