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“The first shot belongs to you, Mr. Thorne,” said Malbrouck. “In the shoulder, you know. You have him in good line. I’ll take the heifer.”

Gregory showed all the coolness of an old hunter, though his lips twitched slightly with excitement. He took a short but steady aim, and fired. The beast plunged forward and then fell on his knees. The others broke away. Malbrouck fired and killed a heifer, and then all ran in pursuit as the moose made for the woods.

Gregory, in the pride of his first slaughter, sprang away towards the wounded leader, which, sunk to the earth, was shaking its great horns to and fro. When at close range, he raised his gun to fire again, but the moose rose suddenly, and with a wild bellowing sound rushed at Gregory, who knew full well that a straight stroke from those hoofs would end his moose-hunting days. He fired, but to no effect. He could not, like a toreador, jump aside, for those mighty horns would sweep too wide a space. He dropped on his knees swiftly, and as the great antlers almost touched him, and he could feel the roaring breath of the mad creature in his face, he slipped a cartridge in, and fired as he swung round; but at that instant a dark body bore him down. He was aware of grasping those sweeping horns, conscious of a blow which tore the flesh from his chest; and then his knife–how came it in his hand?–with the instinct of the true hunter. He plunged it once, twice, past a foaming mouth, into that firm body, and then both fell together; each having fought valiantly after his kind.

Gregory dragged himself from beneath the still heaving body, and stretched to his feet; but a blindness came, and the next knowledge he had was of brandy being poured slowly between his teeth, and of a voice coming through endless distances: “A fighter, a born fighter,” it said. “The pluck of Lucifer–good boy!”

Then the voice left those humming spaces of infinity, and said: “Tilt him this way a little, Big Moccasin. There, press firmly, so. Now the band steady–together–tighter–now the withes–a little higher up–cut them here.” There was a slight pause, and then: “There, that’s as good as an army surgeon could do it. He’ll be as sound as a bell in two weeks. Eh, well, how do you feel now? Better? That’s right! Like to be on your feet, would you? Wait. Here, a sup of this. There you are…. Well?”

“Well,” said the young man, faintly, “he was a beauty.”

Malbrouck looked at him a moment, thoughtfully, and then said: “Yes, he was a beauty.”

“I want a dozen more like him, and then I shall be able to drop ’em as neat as, you do.”

“H’m! the order is large. I’m afraid we shall have to fill it at some other time;” and Malbrouck smiled a little grimly.

“What! only one moose to take back to the Height of Land, to–” something in the eye of the other stopped him.

“To? Yes, to”? and now the eye had a suggestion of humour.

“To show I’m not a tenderfoot.”

“Yes, to show you’re not a tenderfoot. I fancy that will be hardly necessary. Oh, you will be up, eh? Well!”

“Well, I’m a tottering imbecile. What’s the matter with my legs?–my prophetic soul, it hurts! Oh, I see; that’s where the old warrior’s hoof caught me sideways. Now, I’ll tell you what, I’m going to have another moose to take back to Marigold Lake.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’m going to take back a young, live moose.”

“A significant ambition. For what?–a sacrifice to the gods you have offended in your classic existence?”

“Both. A peace-offering, and a sacrifice to–a goddess.”

“Young man,” said the other, the light of a smile playing on his lips, “‘Prosperity be thy page!’ Big Moccasin, what of this young live moose?”

The Indian shook his head doubtfully.

“But I tell you I shall have that live moose, if I have to stay here to see it grow.”