“He’s yours,” said David. “Here, take the .45. That carbine’s not so certain on moose.”
“No, Dave, I want you to get him. Please!” she whispered, as he shook his head.
“Couldn’t think of it, Swickey. Besides, you’re in the bow.”
“He’ll land in a minute. Paddle, Dave! And please shoot him. I want you to have him. I’ll shoot if you miss.”
“You’ll get him then,” replied David. “I have never tried for a moose before. I’ll take a crack at him to please you, but he’s your moose just the same.”
Swickey sat with carbine across her knees, as steady as an old hand at the game. David was more excited than she.
“He’s turning back!” she cried. “Paddle for the other side and take him when he comes out of the water.”
The moose was making good time toward the bank and David jumped the canoe ahead, every atom of his strength in each stroke.
As they touched the bank, Swickey stepped out. Smoke lay cowering in the bow, hooded like a monk in her coat. As David leaped to shore he grinned at the dog. Smoke trembled, but lay crouched in his place. He knew it was not expected of him to do anything else just then. The young bull found bottom and waded to the bank leisurely, facing them as he landed. He seemed to have come a long way, for he was puffing hard. He swung his head from side to side and the hair bristled along his neck and shoulders. David did not understand his unnecessarily belligerent attitude, for he could have gained cover in two leaps.
“Now, Dave! Let him have it—just in that spot above his forelegs.”