Their way led through dense woods nearly all the time, and thanks to the heavy shade, the snow did not begin to soften until nearly eleven o’clock. By that time Bob estimated that they had made all of twenty miles and perhaps a little more.
“Guess this is a good place for dinner,” he said as they came to a tiny stream about a foot wide. The land here was evidently rocky as the water was running with great swiftness. “I’ll bet this stream will be a rod wide in a few days, when the snow begins to go in good earnest,” he said as he threw off his pack.
“We better rest for an hour,” Bob suggested after they had eaten their simple lunch. “We’ll more than make up for it. No use in wearing ourselves out and the going from now till night is going to be pretty heavy, let me tell you.”
They had been sitting on an old log for several minutes when, suddenly, a short distance away to their right, came a sound which made Bob jump to his feet. It sounded like the noise which a small boy makes when he blows on a horn made from a pumpkin vine.
“That’s a bull moose,” Bob said in a low tone, “and I’m afraid he’s coming this way.”
The boys had seen a number of deer since leaving the Carry the previous day, but although they had crossed a number of tracks, they had sighted no moose. Usually unless wounded a moose will run from man, but if hurt they will not hesitate to attack, striking with their fore feet and horns. A single blow from one of the sharp hoofs is almost always fatal.
“What of it?” Jack asked as he too got to his feet. “This isn’t the mating season and he’ll run as soon as he sees us.”
“He will unless he happens to be hurt,” Bob agreed as he peered through the thick trees.
Just then the call sounded and this time it was much nearer.
“He’s coming all right and it sounds to me as though he was mad about something. There he comes, see,” and Bob pointed with his hand.