Gaupa lay in bed once more. The hut was filled with nauseating fumes from the powder, and Bjönn ran from window to door and back again. Finally he stopped at the door, nose to the chink, scenting the draught.
Gaupa knew what elk that was. It had incredibly large shovel-shaped antlers, like Rauten was said to have. Few elks in these parts have shovel-shaped antlers nowadays. Undoubtedly it was Rauten. Lead could not wound him, and he had vanished through the moonlight when the shot rang out, like one possessed.
After a time Bjönn lay down before the door. Once more silence reigned. But to Gaupa it was as if he and Bjönn were not alone in the hut. A breath of wind came down the chimney, and to Gaupa’s ear it was as if something breathed. The silence afterwards was filled with that strange murmuring which comes from nowhere and everywhere. Was it the voices of the dead returning? It sounded like a faint whisper, always the same intonation, always alike. The whisper grew into words: “Beast, beast, beast....”
Even the hills round that hut bore marks of Ré Valley Swede’s pickaxe, deep holes, mossgrown by now. Did he hear steps outside? Two stealthy steps at long intervals? No, surely not. Bjönn would have barked if there had been real steps.
And lying there with his eyes shut, Gaupa recalled many strange things which had been told in Lower Valley during those last years.
One day the cow-boy at Lyhussæter came running home struggling to regain his breath. The dairy maid stood agape. At the same time Martin Lyhus scrambled up with his packhorse, and he heard the nonsense the boy had to tell.
“An elk bull has mounted our 'Drople’!” he says.
Martin tied his horse to the fence.
“What ails ye, lad? Don’t you come here to grown-up folks with child’s talk. What you say has neither rhyme nor reason.”
“But it’s gospel truth,” the boy maintained, and Martin noticed that he was purple with running.