Ben laughed, but did not reply. He led them over the marsh to where the moose had fallen. They closely examined the small bushes in the immediate vicinity. A few splashes showed on some of the leaves, and the guide declared the moose was only slightly wounded.
“Of course, I may be wrong,” he added, noting the look of disappointment on their faces. “Anyhow, we’ll have to follow him up. Nobody but a rank ‘tenderfoot’ or a quitter would leave a wounded animal to suffer and die in misery.”
They started at once to follow the moose.
“Will he be apt to go far?” Ed inquired.
“Judging by the sign, he’ll go a long ways,” Ben prophesied, “unless he’s bleeding inside.”
The boys wished they had not shot, for the idea of the wounded moose, perhaps in mortal agony, fleeing before them caused severe pangs of conscience. They determined, therefore, to follow on the trail until they found their victim and mercifully ended his sufferings.
Headed by the guide, whose keen eyes never for an instant lost the indistinct trail, they toiled through the wilderness for several hours. Twice they were obliged to ford streams, and the icy water chilled their legs. They flushed grouse, which, as usual at such times, flew stupidly into trees and offered all sorts of easy shots. But Ben, fully determined to kill the moose, forbade them to use the rifles on anything except the wounded bull. They had an excellent chance at a buck which leaped from cover beside them and bounded up an exposed hillside. Even then the lads dutifully obeyed instructions and refrained from shooting.
While they were crossing a dangerous strip of floating bog George lagged behind to lace his moccasins. Then, in his eagerness to overtake his companions, he started recklessly across the treacherous swamp, stepped upon a piece of floating bog, and disappeared into a deep water-hole.
When his head reappeared above the surface, George grasped desperately at the moss and bushes fringing the edge of the pool. He was dismayed to find that the bog all around him was afloat. He called to his comrades for help. But they, supposing he had followed them, had disappeared into the timber.
The water was several feet over his depth, and George was compelled to “tread,” a trick he had learned in the school swimming-tank, in order to keep his head above the surface. He realized that he could not continue it very long before he would become exhausted. Already the icy water was cramping his legs and sending sharp, stinging pains through his body. Again and again he clutched at the edge of the floating marsh and tried to drag himself upon it. Each time it sank with his weight and sent him diving beneath the water. He clung valiantly to his rifle, and at last decided to fire it in the hope of attracting the attention of his companions. Then he thought of the moose, and refrained.