The attack by this monarch of the Maine forest had been so sudden that Dale had no time in which to leap out of the way or do anything further to defend himself. Down he went, into a mass of rough rocks and brushwood, and the moose came almost on top of him.
With bated breath, Owen saw youth and beast disappear. His heart leaped into his throat, for he felt that his chum must surely be killed. Then he gave a yell that speedily brought Andrews and Colette to the scene.
"What is it?" demanded Andrews.
"A wounded moose! He just knocked Dale over the bluff."
"Ees he killed?" screamed Colette.
"I hope not. Come, help me."
Owen had now recovered somewhat from his first scare and he picked up his ax. Running to the edge of the ridge he looked over, and saw the moose as the beast struggled to get up on the top of the rocks below.
In the meantime Dale was not idle. Fortunately his fall was not a serious one, for he landed in a mass of thick brushwood, thus saving himself one or more broken bones. From this point he slipped into a hollow and the next instant felt the side of the moose pressing him on the shoulder.
The animal was suffering from loss of blood, and its efforts to regain its feet were wild and ineffectual. The sharp hoofs worked convulsively and one, catching Dale on the shoulder, cut a gash several inches long. Then the moose rolled in one direction, and the young lumberman lost no time in rolling in another.
It was at this point in the conflict that Owen came down to Dale's assistance, leaping from the bluff above, ax in hand. After him came Andrews and Colette, the latter armed with both his ax and an old French fowling-piece.