“He’s after some tender bark,” said the old hunter. “See how he nosed around in the snow for it.” After a brief rest they continued their journey, but night found the game still out of sight, and they had to go into camp in the best shelter they could find. “Never mind,” said Harry. “A moose isn’t to be found here every day.” “No, nor every week, either,” added old Runnell. “So far I haven’t heard of a single one being brought down this winter.” They were up again before sunrise and following the tracks as before. These now led up a rise of ground and Joel Runnell went in advance. “The tracks are getting fresher,” he announced. “I don’t think he’s a mile off at the most.” They went on for a short distance farther, and then Joe put up his hand. “Hark!” he said, in a low voice. “What sort of a noise is that?” They listened, and from a distance heard a scraping and sawing that was most unusual. “We’ve got him!” said old Runnell. “That’s the moose rubbing himself on a tree.” He crept forward, with the others close behind. Soon they came to a little opening in the forest. Here were several rocks backed up by a clump of hemlocks. Against one of the hemlocks stood a tall, magnificent moose, with wide-spreading antlers. He had been scraping his back on the rough bark, and now he proceeded to repeat the operation. “You boys can all fire at the same time,” whispered Joel Runnell. “I’ll wait and see what you can do.” And giving them time to take aim, he gave the signal. The guns rang out together almost as one piece, causing a tremendous report to echo throughout the forest, and filling the little opening with smoke. “You’ve got him!” shouted Joel Runnell, with as much joy in his voice as if he had brought the game down himself. And when the smoke lifted they saw the moose totter and pitch headlong. Once, twice the animal tried to rise up, then over he went with a thud on the rocks, gave a kick or two, and lay still. With loud shouts of triumph the young hunters rushed in. But old Runnell held them back. “Beware,” he cried. “He may give a last kick that will split some one’s head open. Wait!” And they waited until they were certain that life was extinct. “What a beautiful haul!” came from Bart. “And see, every one of us hit him in the neck and breast.” “I’m glad we didn’t hit him in the face,” said Joe. “We can mount that head and it will be something fine.” “Yes, but who is to keep it?” asked Harry. “We can take turns,” was the answer, and this caused a laugh. To get such large game back to the camp at Needle Rock was not easy, and it took them until long after nightfall to cover the distance, and then all were thoroughly exhausted. The moose was placed in a safe place, and they retired without taking the trouble to cook a regular supper. CHAPTER XXX THE FIND—END OF THE OUTING