"Try here," he said. "Not sure, but think beasts near; and if we go on, sure to hear us. Wait little—soon ready."
"Watch him," whispered Hank; "you'll see him set to work as only an Indian can. He's looking about for a birch tree, and with that knife of his will strip the bark in a matter of a few minutes. I kin tell you this, give a Redskin a knife and firelock and powder, and he kin go anywhere and make most anything in these forests. Birch bark aer the stuff he puts to roof his lean-to. A long strip cut from an extry big tree, and shaped and sewn, makes him a canoe that's better than any other craft known on any water; while, ef it's pots and kettles that's wanted fer cookin', he can fix the business easy with his knife, and so long as there's a tree of the right sort about. See him cut that roll free. Now, in a jiffy he'll have a trumpet."
Beaver Jack went about his work in a manner which showed that he was accustomed to it, and came back towards his comrades bearing a long strip of bark which he was slowly coaxing into the shape of a funnel. Then with his knife and a few strips of hide cut from the fringes of his leggings he tied the edges of the bark, so that the implement he had fashioned retained its shape. A little later he bent his lanky form, applied the smaller end of the funnel to his mouth, and blew heavily into it. The lines across forehead and face became even deeper. To look at the Indian one would have declared that he was in agony, and no doubt he was making a special effort. The result was truly wonderful. Joe had heard moose calling before, the sounds they made echoing through the forest. And here the calls were repeated, more loudly, it is true, since they were meant to pass to a distance, but wonderfully realistic and lifelike.
"Now listen," said Hank, in a whisper. "Ef there's a moose bull within two mile of this he'll answer."
The long, deep-toned call produced by Beaver Jack with the aid of his birch-bark trumpet was answered by a deadly silence that nothing broke, and though the call was repeated, it appeared as if the result was to be similar. But suddenly the Indian stirred, while Joe saw Hank's eyes concentrate themselves upon the forest. Then, far off, there came a dismal echo of the sound, as if the hillside were casting it back at the hunters. At once, without so much as a word, the Redskin slunk off into the forest, Hank and Joe following closely.
"You kin look for a burst of speed," whispered Hank hurriedly, turning his head. "There's a moose bull 'way ahead, and Beaver Jack aer going nearer so as to coax him. Jest make sure as you don't knock that rifle against the trees, or else there won't be much huntin'."
Silent after that, with hardly a glance to left or to right, the three pushed on through the wood, Beaver Jack choosing, as if by instinct, a path that avoided thick underwood, and allowed himself and his comrades to retain their snowshoes. Slowly the trees diminished in number, till they straggled out into the open in broken groups of two and three, and finally singly, scattered here and there over a wide field of snow that seemed to be unbroken and unmarked by beasts of any description. To the left the hills reared their heads abruptly, snow-covered to the summits, grey and forbidding, as if they resented the coming of these strangers. Ah! The Redskin had lifted a hand; he came to a halt.
"He aer going to call agin," whispered Hank, who seemed to be tingling with excitement. "Ain't that 'ere Beaver Jack clever?"
None but an expert could, in fact, have produced the impression this seamed and lined Indian contrived at. That long, deep-toned call, rising and falling in cadence and halting abruptly, as if only half-completed, went booming across the snowy waste, and echoed amongst the pinnacles above. It was followed by a second call, the tone of which was distinctly angry, as if the beast summoning its own kind were vexed at the want of an answer. Then, as the same faint response came to their ears—but this time distinctly nearer—a plaintive note crept into the summons which Beaver Jack produced with the aid of his trumpet, till one would have said that even the most heartless of listeners would have dashed forward promptly. But your moose is perhaps one of the wariest of beasts. Gifted with acute hearing and still more pronounced sense of smell, he is almost always suspicious. The least doubt as to the genuineness of a call, the faintest suspicion of the presence of others, will keep him sulking in the background, hidden by the trees, or will send him dashing off madly, his huge antlers steered with wonderful skill between the branches, so that not so much as a sound might help a would-be pursuer. It seemed as if the one in the far distance were of this character, as if he were suspicious. It made no difference to his movements even when Beaver Jack, working himself almost into a frenzy with his efforts, produced more mournful sounds, and then struck the tree trunk beside him heavily. Still the answering response was weak-toned and far off.
"He ain't coming, that's truth," whispered Hank. "We shall have to get along towards him, and this time we shall have to creep over every yard. Ef the brute does come, you shoot, Joe. I've had many a chance; so's Jack. Take him jest below the point of the shoulder."