And, sure enough, there it was, but so hidden in the branches on the left bank that no eyes but those big microscopes of Josef’s could have picked out the beast. The stream narrowed just there and a ripple of water dashed over the stones between alders on one side, where the caribou was, and a pebbly shore in front of alders, on the other. Of course the animal heard Josef’s whisper—that couldn’t be helped. And what do you think he did? They’re crazy in the head, those caribou. He gave a leap out of the alders that hid him, and jumped across the rapids with a tremendous splashing, and stopped on the pebbles in full sight of the audience, and stared at us. I suppose he didn’t know where the trouble was coming from—or else he didn’t know it was trouble, and liked our looks—but that question can’t be settled this side the grave. Anyhow, Zoëtique swung the canoe around with one mighty stroke so that Shacky had a nice left-hand shot, and the caribou stood as if trained and waited for him to be good and ready; and poor old Shacky proceeded to profit by my lessons on the Winchester. He put the rifle to his shoulder and sighted with care, and started in and worked the lever back and forth, back and forth, till he’d loaded and thrown out all five cartridges—and never once touched the trigger. The caribou stood petrified with astonishment while he went through with this surprising performance, making a most unholy racket of course. And when he’d quite finished, and the last cartridge lay in the bottom of the boat—they rained all over him—then the beast stuck out his nose and took to the underbrush, a perfectly good caribou still. It sounds like an impossibility, but it’s an absolutely true tale—it was a pure case of blue funk of course. And he wasn’t used to guns—it’s an outrage to bring a boy up like that.
Well, old Shacky was as game as they make ’em about it, and apologized profusely for wasting good meat, and never whined a whine on his own account. But that didn’t help with Josef. I explained at length how the m’sieur was new to the gun, but when his big eyes lighted on Shacky I saw such contempt in them I was dreadfully afraid Shacky’d see it too. He’d queered himself all right, and I believe Josef would have hated to guide for him at three dollars a day, he despised him so. Yet that’s putting it strong—there aren’t many things the French-Canadians won’t do for money, poor fellows. Anyway, as things were, Josef never looked at Shacky, and acted, as far as he decently could, as if he wasn’t there.
We came to the lake where we were to camp, and the four men put up the tents, and we settled things, and then Josef sneaked off in a canoe alone to see what the signs were for game. We’d planned to hunt first on the Rivière aux Isles, the inlet to this lake, which was said to be broad and grassy in spots.
It was clean dark when Josef got back, and when he walked into the firelight his eyes looked like electric lights—blazing, they were. I never saw such extraordinary eyes. Some old cave-dweller that had to kill to eat, and depended on his quicker vision for a quicker chance than the next cave-dweller may have had that sort—but I’ve never seen the like.
“Did you find good ‘pistes,’ Josef?” I asked him.
He had stopped on the edge of the light, shabby and silent and respectful in his queer collection of old clothes, his straight black hair sticking all ways, like a kingfisher’s feathers, under his faded felt hat. I tell you he was a picture, with his red bandanna knotted into his belt on one side and the big skin knife-sheath with its leather fringe on the other. That knife gave a savage touch to his make-up. But he stood erect and light and powerful, a bunch of steel springs—there’s nothing to pity Josef about on the physical question. He was shy because of Shacky’s being there, but when I asked about the “pistes”—signs, you know—up went his shoulders and out went his hands—he was too excited to think of anything but the hunting.
“Mais des pistes, M’sieur Bob! C’est effrayant! C’est épouvantable!”
Then he went on to tell me, with hands and shoulders going and his low voice chipping in with the cracking of the fire. It seems that, as there was a light drizzle falling, which would wipe out his scent, he had landed on the shore of the wide-water of the Rivière aux Isles near where he thought the beasts might come in. And he had found signs to beat the band—runways cut wide and brown with steady use, and huge prints of both caribou and moose. But what excited him particularly was that, according to his statement, there was a big moose which watered there every day.
“He is there to-day about ten o’clock in the morning. He was there yesterday. There is also a grosse piste of day before yesterday,” he exploded at me in mouthfuls of words. “He walks up the pass—I have seen his steps all along—I have followed. It is necessary that M’sieur Bob shall go there of a good hour to-morrow morning and wait till the great one comes up the river. It is a shot easy for M’sieur Bob from the wide-water to the place where that great one comes. In that manner M’sieur Bob will kill a large moose—crais—but yes.”
“Hold on there a second, Josef,” I halted him. “M’sieur Shackleton’s got to have the first chance—he’s my guest,” and then I stopped, for not only was Josef looking black murder, but Shacky threw his boot at me.