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“Howdy, Mr. Hennigray,” he cried; “glad to see yo’ ag’in, sah! I got yo’ section all right, sah! Lemme take yo’ things, sah! Train gwine to stop hy’eh fo’ some time yet, I reckon.”

“Well, Charles,” said Hemenway, “you take my things and put them in the car. Careful with that gun now! The Lord only knows how much time this train’s going to lose. I’m going ahead to see the engineer.”

Angus McLeod was a grizzle-bearded Scotchman who had run a locomotive on the Intercolonial ever since the road was cut through the woods from New Brunswick to Quebec. Every one who traveled often on that line knew him, and all who knew him well enough to get below his rough crust, liked him for his big heart.

“Hallo, McLeod,” said Hemenway as he came up through the darkness, “is that you?”

“It’s nane else,” answered the engineer as he stepped down from his cab and shook hands warmly. “Hoo are ye, Dud, an’ whaur hae ye been murderin’ the innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? Ye’ve been chasin’ him these mony years.”

“Not much murdering,” replied Hemenway. “I had a queer trip this time–away up the Nepisiguit, with old McDonald. You know him, don’t you?”

“Fine do I ken Rob McDonald, an’ a guid mon he is. Hoo was it that ye couldna slaughter stacks o’ moose wi’ him to help ye? Did ye see nane at all?”

“Plenty, and one with the biggest horns in the world! But that’s a long story, and there’s no time to tell it now.”

“Time to burrn, Dud, nae fear o’ it! ‘Twill be an hour afore the line’s clear to Charlo an’ they lat us oot o’ this. Come awa’ up into the cab, mon, an’ tell us yer tale. ‘Tis couthy an’ warm in the cab, an’ I’m willin’ to leesten to yer bluidy advaintures.”

So the two men clambered up into the engineer’s seat. Hemenway gave McLeod his longest and strongest cigar, and filled his own briar-wood pipe. The rain was now pattering gently on the roof of the cab. The engine hissed and sizzled patiently in the darkness. The fragrant smoke curled steadily from the glowing tip of the cigar; but the pipe went out half a dozen times while Hemenway was telling the story of Silverhorns.

“We went up the river to the big rock, just below Indian Falls. There we made our main camp, intending to hunt on Forty-two Mile Brook. There’s quite a snarl of ponds and bogs at the head of it, and some burned hills over to the west, and it’s very good moose country.

“But some other party had been there before us, and we saw nothing on the ponds, except two cow moose and a calf. Coming out the next morning we got a fine deer on the old wood road–a beautiful head. But I have plenty of deer heads already.”

“Bonny creature!” said McLeod. “An’ what did ye do wi’ it, when ye had murdered it?”

“Ate it, of course. I gave the head to Billy Boucher, the cook. He said he could get ten dollars for it. The next evening we went to one of the ponds again, and Injun Pete tried to ‘call’ a moose for me. But it was no good. McDonald was disgusted with Pete’s calling; said it sounded like the bray of a wild ass of the wilderness. So the next day we gave up calling and traveled the woods over toward the burned hills.

“In the afternoon McDonald found an enormous moose-track; he thought it looked like a bull’s track, though he wasn’t quite positive. But then, you know, a Scotchman never likes to commit himself, except about theology or politics.”

“Humph!” grunted McLeod in the darkness, showing that the strike had counted.

“Well, we went on, following that track through the woods, for an hour or two. It was a terrible country, I tell you: tamarack swamps, and spruce thickets, and windfalls, and all kinds of misery. Presently we came out on a bare rock on the burned hillside, and there, across a ravine, we could see the animal lying down, just below the trunk of a big dead spruce that had fallen. The beast’s head and neck were hidden by some bushes, but the fore shoulder and side were in clear view, about two hundred and fifty yards away. McDonald seemed to be inclined to think that it was a bull and that I ought to shoot. So I shot, and knocked splinters out of the spruce log. We could see them fly. The animal got up quickly, and looked at us for a moment, shaking her long ears; then the huge unmitigated cow vamoosed into the brush. McDonald remarked that it was ‘a varra fortunate shot, almaist providaintial!’ And so it was; for if it had gone six inches lower, and the news gotten out at Bathurst, it would have cost me a fine of two hundred dollars.”