“They are small, but the branches are too high for him,” she told herself. “If I cut down the one that leans toward him, it will almost touch him. If I do—”
She hesitated. At her belt hung a small axe in a sheath. Dared she use it? Could she take the dozen steps toward that moose and wield her axe upon that tree with a steady hand? Her heart pounded painfully. Then, as if whispered in her ear, there came to her, “He notes the sparrow’s fall.”
There was no further hesitation. Gripping her axe, she advanced boldly. As she did so, the moose gave vent to one more terrifying roar. But Jeanne scarcely heard. She had formed a purpose. It should be carried out.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Her axe sounded out in the silent night. Came a cracking sound. The small tree swayed, then went down. The top branches switched the great beast’s nose. He did not appear to mind, but, reaching out, began eating greedily.
“There!” Jeanne breathed. “Now we’ll do one more for good measure.”
A second tree tottered to a fall; then, still gripping her axe, Jeanne sped on the wings of the wind toward the cabin where the lamp still sent out its inviting gleam.
One sound gave speed to her swift feet. The blood-curdling howl of a bush wolf was answered by another and yet another.
“I’ll fix those wolves!” Mr. Carlson exclaimed as Jeanne, five minutes later, in excited words told her story. Taking down his rifle, he disappeared into the dark outside. Shortly after there came the short quick crack-crack-crack of a rifle. After that the night was silent.
“That moose,” said Violet, the quiet, studious sister of Vivian, who took an especial pleasure in watching all manner of wild creatures, “must have been Old Black Joe. We called him that,” she laughed, “because he was almost black, and because he was so old.
“How he does love apples!” She laughed again.