Smeaton lay back for a moment, then his curiosity drew him groaning to his elbow again. The moose was but a few yards from him.
“Whoo-ay!” he shouted.
The moose swerved, never slackening his regular stride, and passed swiftly down the lake to a point fringed with cedars. Smeaton heard a faint crackle as he crashed through them and vanished.
“Call ag’in, you lopin’ ole woodshed.” But Smeaton’s tone lacked humor. The cold was taking hold upon him, striking through from stomach to spine with stabbing intensity.
“HERE’S YOUR GAME,” HE SAID HOARSELY
Two specks appeared on the opposite shore and came toward him in the tracks of the moose.
“They’re comin’, and I don’t give a cuss who they be, so long as they find me.” He lay back waiting in grim silence. Nearer came the hunters. “I kin see red and green,” he muttered,—“and skirts. Joe Smeaton, this ain’t your lucky day.”
When Swickey and her father came to where the tracks of the moose swerved, they paused and glanced toward where Smeaton lay.
He raised stiffly and called to them. “Here’s your game,” he said hoarsely.