A bullet-hole, crusted with dark blood, showed in
his side. The slim legs were bent and stiff, and the mighty forefeet
could no more strike a ripping blow which would end a man's hunting
forever. The antlers which had made the forest ring were powerless horn.
"Do you know, boys," said Herb, as he stooped and touched them,
fingering each prong, "I've hunted moose in fall and winter since I was
first introduced to a rifle. I've still-hunted 'em, called 'em, and
followed 'em on snowshoes; but I never felt so thundering mean about
killing an animal as I did about dropping this fellow. After his antics
in the woods, when he tramped out onto the open patch where I was
waiting under cover of those shrubs, I popped up and covered him with my
Winchester. He just raised the hair on his back and looked at me, with a
way wild animals sometimes have, as if I was a bad riddle. Like as not
he'd never seen a human being before, and a moose's eyes ain't good for
much as danger-signals. It's only when he hears or smells mischief that
he gets mad scared.
[Illustration: A FALLEN KING.
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