CHAPTER VII
The attack by this monarch of the Maine forest had been so sudden that Dale had no time in which to leap out of the way or do anything further to defend himself. Down he went, into a mass of rough rocks and brushwood, and the moose came almost on top of him.
With bated breath, Owen saw youth and beast disappear. His heart leaped into his throat, for he felt that his chum must surely be killed. Then he gave a yell that speedily brought Andrews and Colette to the scene.
"What is it?" demanded Andrews.
"A wounded moose! He just knocked Dale over the bluff."
"Ees he killed?" screamed Colette.
"I hope not. Come, help me."
Owen had now recovered somewhat from his first scare and he picked up his ax. Running to the edge of the ridge he looked over, and saw the moose as the beast struggled to get up on the top of the rocks below.
In the meantime Dale was not idle. Fortunately his fall was not a serious one, for he landed in a mass of thick brushwood, thus saving himself one or more broken bones. From this point he slipped into a hollow and the next instant felt the side of the moose pressing him on the shoulder.
The animal was suffering from loss of blood, and its efforts to regain its feet were wild and ineffectual. The sharp hoofs worked convulsively and one, catching Dale on the shoulder, cut a gash several inches long. Then the moose rolled in one direction, and the young lumberman lost no time in rolling in another.
It was at this point in the conflict that Owen came down to Dale's assistance, leaping from the bluff above, ax in hand. After him came Andrews and Colette, the latter armed with both his ax and an old French fowling-piece.
"Hit him, Owen!" panted Dale. "Hit him in the head!"
"I will—if I can," was the answer, and Owen advanced swiftly but cautiously.
"Stop! I shoot heem!" screamed Jean Colette, and raised his fowling-piece. Bang! went the weapon, and the moose received a dose of bird-shot in his left flank, something which caused him to kick and struggle worse than ever.
Owen now saw his opportunity, and, bending forward, he dealt the moose a swift blow on the shoulder. The beast struck back, but Owen leaped aside, and then the ax came down with renewed force. This time it hit the moose directly between the eyes. There was a cracking of bone and then a convulsive shudder. To make sure of his work, the young lumberman struck out once more, and then the game lay still.
"Yo—you've finished him," said Dale, after a pause.
"Yes, he's dead," put in Andrews, as he gave the game a crack with his own ax, "for luck," as he put it.
"Vat a magnificent creature!" exclaimed Colette. "Bon!Ve vill haf de fine dinnair now,oui?" And his eyes twinkled in anticipation.
"Did he hurt you?" asked Owen, turning from the game to his chum.
"He gave me a pretty bad dig with his hoof," was the reply. "I guess I'll have to have that bound up before I do anything else. He came kind of sudden, didn't he?"
"Those hunters up the mountain drove him down here. I suppose they'll be after him soon."
"Doesn't he belong to us, Owen? You killed him."
"That's a question. They wounded him pretty badly—otherwise he would never have stumbled this way."
"I'd claim the game," came from Andrews. "Somebody wounded him, it's true, but they would never have gotten the moose."
Leaving Andrews and Colette to watch the game, Dale, accompanied by Owen, walked back to camp, where he had his wound washed and dressed. The cut was a clean one, for which the young lumberman was thankful. Some salve was put on it; and in the course of a couple of weeks the spot was almost as well as ever.
The shots had been heard by a number of the other lumbermen, and a dozen gathered around and walked to the gully to look at the moose. It was certainly a fine creature, with a noble pair of antlers.
"If nobody comes to claim that carcass you've got somethin' worth having," was old Winthrop's comment. "But some hunter will be along soon, don't ye worry."
Yet, strange to say, no one came to put in a claim, and a few hours later the moose was placed on a drag and taken to camp. All the men had a grand feast on the meat, and the antlers and pelt were sold at a fair price to a trader who happened to come that way. The total amount was put into the cigar box by Owen.
"For it belongs to Dale as much as myself," said Owen. Jean Colette claimed nothing, for he knew that his bird-shot had had little effect on the moose.
Dale was afraid that he would run behind the others in work because of his wound. But such was not the case, for the day after the encounter at the ridge it began to snow and blow at a furious rate, so that none of the loggers could go out. The time was spent mostly indoors or at the stables where the ten horses belonging to the camp were kept. The men were never very idle, for they had their own mending to do and often their own washing. The days, too, were short, and the majority of the hands retired to their bunks as soon as it grew dark.
"This weather will bring out the sleds," observed Owen. "I guess Mr. Paxton will give orders to carry logs as soon as it clears off."
The camp boasted of four long, low double-runner sleds. These were driven by two Canadians and two Scotchmen, all expert at getting a load of logs over the uneven ground without spilling them. The horses were intelligent animals, used to logging, and would haul with all their might and main when required.
Owen was right; the sleds were brought out on the first clear day, and while the majority of the men continued to cut logs, some were set to work to make a road down to the pond and others were set at the task of loading the logs ready for transportation.
Dale had already put in a week or two at swamping, and now he and Andrews were detailed to fix a bit of the road that ran around a hilltop overlooking the stream far below. Near this spot was a long sweep of fairly even ground, sloping gradually toward the watercourse, and Joel Winthrop had an idea that many logs could be rolled to the bottom without the trouble of loading and chaining them on the sleds.
"Such a method will certainly save a lot of trouble," said Andrews, as he went out with Dale. "But the men below want to stand from under when the logs come down."
The storm had given way to sunshine that made all the trees and bushes glisten as if burnished with silver. From the hilltop an expanse of country, many miles in extent, could be surveyed—a prospect that never grew tiresome to Dale, for he was a true lover of nature, even though occupied in destroying a part of her primeval beauty.
"Just think of the days when this country was full of Indians," he said to Andrews. "It's not so very many years ago."
"Right you are; times change very quickly. Why, the first sawmill wasn't built on the Penobscot until 1818, and in those days Bangor was only a small town and many of the other places weren't even dreamed of. The Indians had their own way in the backwoods, and they used to do lots of trading with the white folks when they felt like it."
"Yes, and fought the white folks when they didn't feel like it," laughed Dale. "But then the red men weren't treated just right either," he added soberly.
"I can remember the time when these woods were simply alive with game of all sorts," went on the older lumberman. "If you wanted a deer all you had to do was to lay low for him down by his drinking place. But now to get anything is by no means easy. That moose you and Webb got is a haul not to be duplicated."
The work at the hilltop progressed slowly, but at the end of two weeks all the small trees and brushwood in the vicinity were cut down and disposed of, and then a road to the edge of the hill was leveled off and packed down.
In the meantime one of the sleds had been at work among the trees cut down just back of the edge, and these trees were now piled up in several heaps.
"We'll try some of the logs this afternoon," said Gilroy, one Friday morning, and the trial was made directly after dinner. Four logs were pushed over the edge, one directly after the other, and down they went, with a speed that increased rapidly and sent the loose snow flying in all directions. At the bottom they struck several trees left standing for that purpose and came to a stop with thuds that could be heard a long distance off.
"Hurrah! That beats sledding all to pieces!" cried Dale. "We can roll down a hundred logs while a sled is taking down a dozen."
"We can roll down all we have up here to-morrow," said Gilroy. "And the sled can go to the cut below. The biggest logs are in the hollow and it will take every team we have to get 'em out."
Yarding had already begun at the edge of the pond, and Saturday found Owen at work among a number of small trees and thick brushwood which Mr. Paxton had ordered cut away, for the head lumberman loved to see everything around his camp in what he termed "apple-pie order." This is nothing unusual among the better class of lumbermen in Maine, and they often vie with each other as to which camp presents the best appearance and whose cut of logs foots up the cleanest.
Among the logs at the hilltop was a giant tree, left standing for many years and now cut for a special purpose by old Joel Winthrop himself. A friend of his, an old sea captain, was building a schooner at Belfast, and Winthrop had promised him a mast that should stand any strain put on it.
"Aint no better stick nor thet in the whole State o' Maine," said Joel Winthrop to Andrews and Dale. "An' I want ye to be careful how ye roll it down the hill." And they promised to be as careful as they could.
It was no easy task to get the big log just where they wanted it, and it was Monday afternoon before they were ready to let it start on its short but swift journey to the edge of the pond. During the day the sky had clouded over and now it looked snowy once more.
"I guess we are ready to bid her good-by," observed Dale, as he looked the log over and measured the snowy slope with his eye.
"All ready!" sang out Andrews. "Now then, up with your stick and let her drive!"
Each was using a long pole as a lever, and each now pressed down. This started the log toward the edge, and in a second the stick began to slide downward, slowly at first and then faster and faster.
"Hullo! hullo!" sang out a voice from far below. "Don't send any more logs down just yet!"
"It's Owen calling!" gasped Dale, his face growing suddenly white. "Owen, where are you?"
"There he is!" came from Andrews, holding up his hands in horror. "There, right in the way of that log!" He raised his voice into a shriek. "Run for your life! Run, or you'll be smashed into a jelly!"