Just before they emerged into a clearing Bub seized Stanley’s wrist and gently drew him back beneath a low growing pine. “It’s something big,” he whispered, holding his rifle in readiness.
“It’s a bear,” trembled Stanley, as a huge form crackled towards them through the underbrush.
“No, sirree! It’s a twelve-hundred-pound moose,” cried Bub under his breath. “See; he’s got only one antler. T’other one has been knocked off. He’ll lose the other one soon.”
The moose at this point, turned sharply and bounded away. “They are never dangerous except in the fall,” announced Stanley.
“Wrong, my son; that moose there might have charged us. You can never tell what a moose will do. I’ve been treed four times by one, and I’d rather have a bear after me any time. A moose is the only thing I’m really afraid of in the woods. No—I’ll take that back. Take a three-hundred-pound buck, and he’d be a big one at that weight, and when he’s wounded he’s a tough customer to meet. He’ll fight to the last drop of blood in his body.”
The shack bore evidences of being recently occupied and Bub’s eyes wandered often to the edge of the woods as he realized that Big Nick
