All three of the cows wheeled and ran toward the trees, while the big fellow darted that way, joining them as they reached the grove.
Crack! Crack! Frank had unlimbered his rifle as soon as he realized what the enthusiasm of Paul had done, and fired twice at the big bull—without avail. The other boys, also brought their firearms around. But they were too late. The moose had gotten to safety and were rushing off through the woods as hard as they could go. At the same time, the smaller moose bull pulled himself to his legs, and injured though he was by the tearing of the great antlers of the giant, he limped rapidly away along an opposite path.
“Too bad,” said Paul. “It was my fault. But, gee, fellows, you don’t realize what a picture I got! I snapped it just as the big one threw the little fellow over!”
“You’re forgiven if you got that picture.” Frank tried to be forgiving and pleasant, a difficult task. “But, oh, Paul, if you didn’t get it, you’re going to hang by your thumbs for sixteen long hours.”
The excitement held the boys for a little while. They discussed the practicability of following the trail of the moose through the woods, hoping they might come on them and have a better shot.
“Do you know,” Frank said during the discussion, “I believe that must be the old king moose that we’ve heard so much about.”
The boys heartily agreed, for it would seem that none other but the monarch of these woods, so much talked of by huntsmen, would have charged down on the herd and tried to take the cows away from their protector.
“Well, fellows,” remarked Buster Billings, when the discussion had seemed to go as far as it could, “the sun is getting up. Let’s do some fishing. I want to see Lanky be a champion again, just as he was yesterday.”
“You go to thunder,” laughingly cried Lanky.
The boys turned back to the lake, skating, under the leadership of Frank, toward one of the islands which reared its head half a mile away.