When the first river-bank point hid him from their sight he raced. "They're running now," he thought, for he was down wind from them, and the telegraph was working.
When the two hunters reached the belly of the next bend they saw a big Bull Moose quietly browsing at the point beyond. He was walking slowly, snipping at the tree branches as he moved.
"Keep the dogs back," one hunter said; "we are sure to get a quiet shot at him, for he's on the feed."
Point after point, bend succeeding bend, Mooswa played this game; mile after mile they toiled, the tantalizing expectation of a stolen shot leading them an amazing distance on the Moose trail.
"It's the Stag-hounds that keep him moving," remarked the man who had spoken before; "he's down wind, and gets them in his big, fat nose--if I could rustle a shot into his carcass, I'd slip them quick enough; but if we let them go now it will be a play of twenty or thirty miles before we get another sight of him. I'm not struck on following a Bull Moose under full trot with a pack of dogs behind him."
"We'll get a shot on the quiet soon," remarked his comrade. "He is a bit on edge just now, but will settle down after he has seen us a few times." They had given up travelling in the bush, and were following straight on the hoof-marks in the river-bed.
"Hello!" sang out one, pointing to a depression in the snow, "he's been lying down resting here--he's getting fagged. Somebody else must have been running him before we struck his trail--he's nearly beat."
As they crossed the Wolf trail Mooswa had found on his way down, the Trapper in the lead said, significantly, "It's the Gray Hunters have done the Bull up; they've been after him, and he's dead beat."
The big Stag-hounds sniffed the Wolf trail, dropped their long, bony tails in sullen fear, raised their heads, and bayed a howling note of defiance.
"Shut up, Bruce!" exclaimed one of the men, pulling at the raw-hide leash, "you'll be better up against a Moose than tackling that gang."