It appears as though, on the other side of a birch-clad hill, there might be another lake. Sure enough; I can already glimpse it shining through the trees and am just on the point of emerging from the woods when — the unbelievable takes place! A moose heaves in sight across the lake, runs out across a stretch of muskeg, and halts to sniff the air. What a mountain of edible flesh! 

At such long range I aim too low and succeed only in wounding the moose in one of its front legs. With that, it swings round and begins limping back toward the woods. It is just at this point that a fuzzy white shape darts from the woods and, before my very eyes, hurls itself upon the beast. I stare in utter amazement, until I suddenly recognize the familiar yelping of Trofast. Heavens, what a dog! He had probably thought to himself that we couldn't hope to do much hunting without him! So he had slipped his collar, a trick he can accomplish whenever he has a fit of hunting-fever, regardless of how tightly it fits. And here he is now, successful in running down his game and driving the moose straight in my direction. 

Many a time have I seen moose and dog come to blows, but never before a battle so desperately waged as this one. Trofast is everywhere. Like a wolf, he lunges in at his adversary, first from the front, then from the rear. Now he is crouching on his fore-paws right in front of the moose, barking and doing his best to tantalize it; he escapes the hoofs and antlers of the other by a mere fraction of a second. The moose sees red, feels the pain in its leg, and is out for murder. With head bent low and stiff staring eyes it stands waiting for an opening, then limps in the direction of the dog. Like a sledge-hammer whizzing through the air, that wounded leg flies out at the dog. Mud from the marsh splashes up where it lands. Round and round they go. 

I approach to within a short distance, neither of the combatants paying the slightest heed to me. At this point I deliver the coup de grace. At the very moment the moose topples over, Trofast pounces upon its rump with a snarl and begins wrestling to make it lie still. He is more eager than cautious, however, for the moose is still kicking, and it is not long before Trofast is sailing high and far through the air. He crawls to his feet again and returns, limping stiffly. This time, to be on the safe side, Trofast stations himself high up on the belly of the moose. Ah, there is a dog who can well feel proud of himself! 

Now I must make some effort to get hold of Dale. I set off in the direction of the river, shouting at the top of my lungs. All at once he breaks from the woods and comes running as fast as he can in my direction, his finger on the trigger. " What's up? " he calls from a distance. " Just shot a moose," I reply. " Oh, well," he says dryly. " I thought the bear had got you." 

The fact of the matter was that Dale had just been looking for some bear cubs he had heard squeaking up in a spruce-tree when he heard my wild shouts. There had been no doubt in his mind whatever but that the she-bear had got her dander up and was venting her spite upon me. . . . 

We remained at the place where I brought down the moose, for four days, simply gorging ourselves with meat. Meanwhile we fleshed and dried the moose hide and laid in a large store of dried meat. When we struck camp and set our course back in the direction of Slave Lake, both we and our dogs had tremendous burdens to carry. But moose meat makes one nat-seri (strong), as the Indians say, and when a man has a full belly, he has a different outlook upon life. . . .