The crash that followed sounded like the discharge of one gun, both reports blending into a single roar.
Enthusiasm seized both young sportsmen when they saw their victim floundering on the snow-covered ground.
“Hurrah!” fairly shrieked Jerry, throwing all his enthusiasm into that single word.
Bluff was meanwhile making his gun ready for further business. If this moose was as tough as people said, and rivaled the silver-tip bear of the Rockies in clinging to life after receiving a multitude of wounds, he meant to be ready to give him another shot.
“Throw out the old shell—quick, he’s getting up again!” Bluff hissed.
This time he sank on one knee, and secured a rest for his left elbow on the leg that was extended. He believed that he could give a better account of himself when in that position. Now if the old bull moose insisted on struggling to his feet again, he must be reached in a vital part.
There was no need of wasting any more ammunition, although the boys, not being experienced in this line of hunting, did not know it positively.
“Oh, Bluff, he’s gone crashing down again!” gasped Jerry.
“Yes, and this time, I guess, it’s for keeps,” added the other, though hardly able to realize that, after all, they had accomplished the great feat, visions of which had tempted them to follow the snow trail all these weary miles.
Together they started on a mad run toward the spot, eager to feast their eyes on the sight of that magnificent specimen lying there.