So then and there we divided the remnants of food evenly, for
"Bezkya was a moose-hunter."
Then Major Jarvis and Corporal Selig boarded the smaller canoe. We shook hands warmly, and I at least had a lump in my throat; they were such good fellows in camp, and to part this way when we especially felt bound to stick together, going each of us on a journey of privation and peril, seemed especially hard; and we were so hungry. But we were living our lives. They rounded the bend, we waved goodbye, and I have never seen them since.
Hitherto I was a guest; now I was in sole command, and called a council of war. Billy was stanch and ready to go anywhere at any cost. So was Preble. Bezkya was sulky and rebellious. Physically, I had been at the point of a total breakdown when I left home; the outdoor life had been slowly restoring me, but the last few days had weakened me sadly and I was not fit for a long expedition on foot. But of one thing I was sure, we must halt till we got food. A high wind was blowing and promised some respite to the Moose from the little enemy that sings except when he stings, so I invited Bezkya to gird up his loins and make another try for Moose.
Nothing loath, he set off with Billy. I marked them well as they went, one lithe, sinewy, active, animal-eyed; the other solid and sturdy, following doggedly, keeping up by sheer blundering strength. I could not but admire them, each in his kind.
Two hours later I heard two shots, and toward evening the boys came back slowly, tired but happy, burdened with the meat, for Bezkya was a moosehunter.
Many shekels and gladly would I have given to have been on that moose hunt. Had I seen it I could have told it. These men, that do it so well, never can tell it. Yet in the days that followed I picked up a few significant phrases that gave glimpses of its action.
Through the crooked land of endless swamp this son of the woods had set out "straightaway west." A big track appeared crossing a pool, seeming fresh. "No! he go by yesterday; water in track not muddy." Another track was found. "Yes, pretty good; see bite alder. Alder turn red in two hours; only half red." Follow long. "Look out, Billy; no go there; wrong wind. Yes, he pass one hour; see bit willow still white. Stop; he pass half-hour; see grass still bend. He lie down soon. How know? Oh, me know. Stand here, Billy. He sleep in thick willow there."
Then the slow crawl in absolute stillness, the long wait, the betrayal of the huge beast by the ear that wagged furiously to shake off the winged bloodsuckers. The shot, the rush, the bloody trail, the pause in the opening to sense the foe, the shots from both hunters, and the death.
Next day we set out in the canoe for the Moose, which lay conveniently on the river bank. After pushing through the alders and poling up the dwindling stream for a couple of hours we reached the place two miles up, by the stream. It was a big bull with no bell, horns only two-thirds grown but 46 inches across, the tips soft and springy; one could stick a knife through them anywhere outside of the basal half.
Bezkya says they are good to eat in this stage; but we had about 700 pounds of good meat so did not try. The velvet on the horns is marked by a series of concentric curved lines of white hair, across the lines of growth; these, I take it, correspond with times of check by chill or hardship.