More crackling, a sudden parting of the bushes, and Dick’s heart almost stood still. A large bull moose, majestic in his stature, crashed into view.
By this time Dick was fairly trembling with excitement. Twice he endeavored to raise his rifle to his shoulder. His arm shook so much that he knew it would be worse than useless to attempt a shot while his nerves were in such a condition.
“I can’t do it,” thought Dick, then across his mind flashed the mental picture of a cache, broken into and robbed, and the sneering face of Pierre Govereau mocking him. Then his rifle went to his shoulder, and two loud reports rang out in quick succession. The moose stumbled, but did not fall. Dick heard quite plainly its sudden snort of alarm and the crash of underbrush as it struck off at terrific speed directly down the slope in the direction from which he had but recently come.
The moose was wounded, he knew, but he also was well aware from previous experience that a wounded moose will often travel for miles before it falls. Galvanized into action, Dick was off, following the blood-stained trail, hoping against hope that either Sandy or Toma might intercept the animal before it had become lost in the intricate tangle of brush and woodland that lay to the south.
Sliding down a particularly treacherous part of the trail, Dick’s foot caught in an exposed root and he fell heavily. As he bounded to his feet again, he thought he heard a distant shout—but he was not entirely sure.
For twenty minutes more, he pushed forward rapidly, sometimes almost losing the trail of the moose. Then finally he did lose it altogether. Search as he would, the telltale tracks had disappeared as magically and as unaccountably as if the animal had leaped into the air and flown away to a place of safety.
“It’s the most unusual thing I ever heard of,” Dick commented aloud, racing about in a vain effort to discover some sign that would point out again the trail that had so suddenly vanished.
In despair his eyes fell upon a level formation of rock not more than thirty feet away. Could it be that the moose had passed that way—scrambled over the level rock floor in its mad race with death? If so, it would explain the mysterious disappearance of the tracks; but there must be blood-stains somewhere.
“Whoop-ee!” he shouted as his quick eyes made out the signs he sought—small splotches of red scattered across the smooth surface of sandstone. And shortly thereafter, he hurried on again, like a young bloodhound finding fresh scent along the path ahead.
“I’ll be more careful next time,” he assured himself. “It would be a pity if this moose got away. I’d have been ashamed to show my face in camp.”