As he cocked the rifle the moose turned slightly and exposed his left side. Bob took careful aim at a spot just back of the fore leg and pulled the trigger. For a second the moose stood as if surprised, then slowly he began to totter and, with a low moan, sank to the ground.
“Right through the heart,” Jack cried. “He never knew what hit him.”
“I feel almost like a murderer,” Bob declared as he lowered himself to the snow. “I certainly do hate to shoot anything.”
“Well, I do too for that matter, but it couldn’t be helped. In this case there’s no good in feeling bad about it,” Jack assured him as he began to fasten on his snow-shoes.
Again the going was heavy and their progress slow. Still they expected it and so took it philosophically. After they had been trudging about an hour they suddenly came to a large lake.
“This must be Churchill Lake,” Bob declared as he stopped and took out his map. “See. We must be right here and if so then we’ve kept a mighty straight course.”
“Funny the ice hasn’t gone yet,” Jack said as he looked out over the frozen surface.
“Not so strange,” Bob assured him. “The ice goes out of some of these lakes much earlier than others, and I guess this must be one of the late ones.”
“Think it’ll be safe to cross it?” Jack asked.
“Not on your life,” Bob answered quickly. “That ice must be pretty rotten by now and, anyhow, we wouldn’t gain much as our way is nearly straight up past it.”