Glad sound! An answer this time! First, a shrill, long “Coo-hoo!” Next, Herb’s voice was heard pealing from far away in the bog: “What’s up, boys? Where in the world are you?”
“Here in the trees—treed by a bull-moose!” yelled Cyrus. “He’s the maddest old monster you ever saw. Could you coax him off, or sneak up and shoot him? He means to keep us prisoners all night.”
There was no wordy answer. But presently the treed heroes heard an odd, bird-like whistle. Dol thought it came from a feathered creature; his more experienced companion guessed that the guide’s lips gave it as a signal that he was coming, but that he didn’t want to draw the moose’s attention in his direction just yet.
Such a quarter of an hour followed! With the fresh spurt of anger the bull-moose became more savage than ever. He grunted, tramped, and hooked the trees with his horns, so that the pair who were perched like night-birds on the branches had to hold on for dear life, lest a surprising shock should dislodge them. Whenever the creature stood off, to gather more fury, they could have counted their heart-beats while they listened, breathlessly anxious to, know what action the approaching woodsman would take.
Once Cyrus spoke.
“Dol Farrar,” he said, “I guess this caps all the adventures that you or I have had up to date. No wonder you felt all day as if you were working up to something. I’ll believe in presentiments in future.”
The words had scarcely passed his lips, when there was the sharp bang! bang! of a rifle not twenty yards distant. A bright sputter of fire cut the darkness beneath the hemlocks.
The moose’s blind rage threatened to be his own undoing. While he was fighting an imaginary danger, ears and nostrils half-choked by fury, through the calm night Herb Heal, Winchester in hand, had crept noiselessly on, till he reached the very trees which sheltered his friends.
Once, twice, three times the rifle snapped. The first shot missed altogether. At the second, the moose rose upon his hind-legs, with a sharp sound of fright and pain, quite unlike his former noises. Then he gave a quick jump.
“Great Governor’s Ghost! he’s gone;” yelled Cyrus, who had swung himself down a few feet, and was hanging by one arm, in his anxiety to see the result of the firing. “You needn’t shoot again, Herb! He’s off! Let him go!”