We sat around the big open brick fireplace in the main cabin of the camp, watching the birch logs as the flames greedily licked them and threw forth a strong ruddy light upon our faces. What with the guides and a few old veterans we made quite a party. Hunting stories had been the topic of the evening's conversation, and I, who had seldom hunted (this being, in fact, my first trip into the region), had listened to these stories very much interested. The camp was situated on an island in one of the numerous lakes found along the borders of northern Maine. It consisted of a few log cabins, with a large one in the centre, where we were at the moment congregated. The night air was very cold, and Billy, our host, had predicted a frost before morning. Billy was practically born in the woods, and knew every sign that could be learned. It was a pleasure to watch his quiet face as he pulled away on a big black cigar, gazing the while reflectively at the blazing logs. While I watched him my eyes drifted now and then around the walls of the cabin. Stacked in the corners were rifles and shot-guns of all descriptions, and strung along the log sides, upon wooden pins, rested fly-rods innumerable, their polished reels catching and reflecting the flicker of the fire.
Off in the shadowy corner a rude stairway, with moose-legs for rails, went climbing up into the loft overhead, and in the deepest part of the shadow I made out the head of a magnificent bull moose with immense spreading antlers. As I looked at it, it seemed to appear exceedingly savage, and the glass eyes had been so skilfully placed that in the flickering light they stared in the most baleful manner. Involuntarily I drew my chair closer to Billy's, and patiently watched his cigar dwindle down, ever and anon glancing at the ferocious-looking head behind me.
In a short time the conversation lulled, and I ventured to ask Billy to tell the story connected with the shooting of the moose behind us. "It is sure to be interesting," I said, "for he looks as if he died fighting hard."
Billy glanced at me in a protesting sort of way, but the chorus of requests for the story was too much for him.
"Well, boys," he said, "just give me a moment till I load my pipe, and I'll tell it to you; and you can judge for yourselves whether it is interesting or not.
"It was ten years ago coming winter when I had a camp near the mouth of the river below here. Some of you saw what's left of it when you came over the Parmachene trail yesterday. I was all alone that fall, except for an occasional hunter or so going up the trail, and for some reason deer was scarce. Well, I was hugging the fire one cold evening early in November, when I heard a loud crash outside the camp. Now that meant one of two things: either a windfall had taken place, or some large game was floundering through the bog near at hand. Seizing my rifle, I slipped out of the cabin.
"I looked in the direction from which the crash had come, but I could see nothing. Softly launching my canoe, I placed the rifle in the bottom of it, to be handy, you know, and started to paddle up the stream a little way. I had probably gone about fifty feet when a branch snapped, and then came a tremendous crash. The sound was close at hand, and I gave a quick look in the direction whence it came. The night was too black to see much, but I made out the huge stump of a tree that I had often thrashed for trout from. Immediately back of this stump lay a tangle of dead trees. I had stopped paddling, and the current of the stream was slowly drifting the canoe towards it, and, with my rifle ready, I waited for a sight of the game. Judging from the noise of the last crash, I knew it must be near the stump.
"Most of you boys can appreciate what my feelings were at the moment, for I felt pretty sure of big game and a good stock of meat. It took but a few seconds to drift around to the lee of that stump, and I quickly brought up with a thump against some of the dead wood in the bog. What I saw gave me a start, for there in the deep shadow stood the largest bull moose it has ever been my fortune to run across.
"Well, I'm an old hunter, guide, or whatever you want to call me, and have tracked deer from boyhood, also bear, moose, and caribou; but, boys, when I saw that magnificent bull glaring at me I grew feverish with excitement, and for a few minutes I simply stared back at him. I guess we were not more than twenty feet apart, and as far as I could tell through the steam rising from him, he was caught in the bog some way, and was fighting mad.
"I had been at close quarters with moose before, but never saw such dangerous-looking eyes. Raising my gun, I aimed as well as I could just back of his fore-shoulder. I felt shaky, though, and the sights went bobbing up and down like a cork float. I tried hard to get her steady, and when I had her fairly so I fired.