With shouts of joy at the prospect of plenty of fresh meat, the Indians leaped from the sleds, donned showshoes, and were soon at the side of the dead moose. Mr. Baxter, Jerry and the colored man followed.
"Yo' suah am a good shot, Massa Fred," complimented Johnson. "I once shot a wild turkey, an' goodness, I was so puffed up I hardly knowed mahself."
"I guess it was more due to good luck than anything else that I hit him," said Fred modestly.
"Well, it's just in time for dinner," remarked Mr. Baxter. "It will be a welcome relief from the canned stuff."
"I'se gwine t' look out fo' suthin' t' shoot after dis," announced Johnson. Absent-mindedly he had taken off his heavy mittens to feel of the antlers of the moose, and without thinking what he was doing, he took hold of his rifle barrel in his bare hand. The next instant he uttered a howl of anguish.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Baxter quickly.
"Mah hand! It's froze fast t' mah gun! Ah cain't git it off!"
This was true. So intense was the cold that the moment the colored man placed his warm and somewhat moist hand on the steel the flesh had frozen fast. This is a common occurrence in the far north, and travelers, knowing it, are careful never to grasp anything of metal in their bare hands. But the colored man, though he had been warned against this, had forgotten it.
"Quick! Put some snow on and then wrap his hand up in a blanket!" called Mr. Baxter. "He'll lose a finger or two if we don't."
It was the work of but an instant for Fred to scoop up some snow in his big mitten, place it over the negro's hand and part of the rifle barrel and then throw a fur robe over his whole arm, thus shutting out the terrible cold for a moment. The treatment was effective, the snow melted the ice between Johnson's hand and the metal, and in a few seconds the hand had thawed loose.