Pointing at the sand, he said, “You know him?”
“Wolves,” I answered.
“Yes—first time I see 'em up here—they be follerin' the deers—bad—bad. No can trap 'em—verrie smart.”
A half-dozen wolves had chased a deer into the water; but wolves do not take to the water, so they had stopped and drank, and then gone rollicking-together up the beach. There were cubs, and one great track as big as a mastiff might make.
“See that—moose track—he go by yesterday;” and Jimmie pointed to enormous footprints in the muck of a marshy place. “Verrie big moose—we make call at next camp—think it is early for call.”
At the next camp Jimmie made the usual birch-bark moose-call, and at evening blew it, as he also did on the following morning. This camp was a divine spot on a rise back of a long sandy beach, and we concluded to stop for a day. The Norseman and I each took a man in our canoes and started out to explore. I wanted to observe some musk-rat hotels down in a big marsh, and the Norseman was fishing. The attorney was content to sit on a log by the shores of the lake, smoke lazily, and watch the sun shimmer through the lifting fog. He saw a canoe approaching from across the lake. He gazed vacantly at it, when it grew strange and more unlike a canoe. The paddles did not move, but the phantom craft drew quickly on.
“Say, Furguson—come here—look at that canoe.”
The Scotchman came down, with a pail in one hand, and looked. “Canoe—hell—it's a moose—and there ain't a pocket-pistol in this camp,” and he fairly jumped up and down.