Phil Bradley's Mountain Boys

by Silas K. Boone

He instantly heard the moose rushing after him. The distance was short, and so Phil managed to swing around his new shelter, with those ugly horns not more than five feet behind him.

Well, that was all the margin he needed for safety. The new barrier would cause him to cover much more ground with every revolution; but then it was not his purpose to keep this up any longer than was absolutely necessary.

A great wave of relief swept over the boy when he managed to slip in between two of the small trees, and found that he was well protected on all sides from the enraged animal's horns.

In vain did the moose attempt to insert his head between the trees. Phil kicked at him, and continued his shouts. By now he was beginning to feel that the advantage was swinging over to his side. He had done nothing to incur this hostility on the part of the animal, and was surely entitled to the privilege of defending himself as best he could, even to the extent of inflicting injury on his four-footed enemy.

Perhaps at some time in the past a monster tree had been cut down on this spot, and these second-growth saplings had sprung up in a circle that was wide enough to afford a nimble boy shelter. The towering horns of the moose, more than anything else, rendered it difficult for him to reach Phil.

This second stage of the affair was a decided improvement on the first, Phil assured himself. At the same time he was not satisfied. He failed to see the fun of being kept a prisoner, cooped up in that limited space for perhaps hours. It was no fault of his that the moose chanced to be in an ugly humor; and just then, if Phil Bradley had had any sort of firearm along he would have felt justified in dispatching that furious animal. Game laws are good things, but even they must be broken when one's life is placed in jeopardy.

Besides his pocket knife Phil had nothing on his person that could be called a weapon. For once he had even left his hunting knife at the cabin, and bitterly he repented of his unusual thoughtlessness. It would never happen again he told himself, when he realized how helpless he was.

When the moose again started trying to get at him Phil conceived a new hope. It was in the shape of an inspiration, and he watched eagerly in the expectation that such a thing might come to pass.

What if the moose did find a way to crowd his head between two of the trees, by slanting it sideways; what if in his stupidity he was unable to extricate it again, and could only tug frantically backwards becoming excited and helpless?

That would be turning the tables in great shape. Phil had seen cows confined in stall yokes somewhat after that fashion. He also knew how green turtles are captured in large mesh nets down along the Florida coast streams like Indian River; for the stupid creature, having passed its flippers through the net, and being unable to continue the forward movement on account of the bulging shell, simply keeps trying to urge itself on, and never dreaming that it could back out by reversing its flippers.