Instantly from out those bushes came a charging terror. All legs and head and saber-pointed antlers, he came straight at the offender who had fired that last shot. Old Uncle Ned, veteran bull moose of Isle Royale, had beyond doubt been nicked by a bullet. Revenge he would have, and did.
At sight of him the terrified gangster leaped high in air to clear the bushes. He was caught squarely by those murderous antlers. Then moose and man plunged forward into the dark clump of evergreen growing by the trail.
There came the sound of crashing boards, followed by the hoarse breathing of some creature engaged in a life and death struggle. There were many seconds of this and then, staggering like a drunken man, Old Uncle Ned came out to the trail and went slowly plodding his way into the distant dark.
They waited for the man to appear. A moment ticked its way into eternity, a second and a third. From far away came the maniacal laugh of a loon.
“Red,” the girl whispered at last, “did you hear that cracking sound?”
“Yes. What was it?”
“Red, do you know what there is by that clump of black trees?”
“No. What is it?”
“Red, can you guess what has happened?”
“No.” Red was very patient. “What has happened?”