Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 158: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

* P SLE - _ drove the trapper’s trigger finger to the carbine guard, French Louey noted that he saw the big moose. “ Every tam I look aroun’, by Gar, W en I don’ need to see 'm!” the trapper whis- pered under his breath when he saw the black giant stalking along in the gloom of heavy timber, or out in the thin footing over open moss. , Sometimes the two looked each other in the darkling eye, each uncertain of the other’s intentions—yet the moose decided to mind his own business, turing to vanish without haste in whatever cover was COn- venient. The cow, more shy, more reticent, kept clear, and seldom loomed in the fore- nd. a followed snow. What had been convenient tracking, showing whither the pekans ran, where the mink crossed from stream to stream, was now a deep, fluffy mass against which the broad chest of the bull moose plowed, and in which French Louey lifted high his long raquettes, com- plaining bitterly that he was too old for such nonsense; pausing, however, to bandy words with a flock of blue jays, or talk soothingly to some still-living victim in his pretty cubby, ere it had jerked the well- sweep clear to lift it by a caught paw to swing hopeless and helpless—a bit of living fur in its doom. Until New Years, French Louey was all enwrapped in the best of the year’s trap- ping. After the sleety thaw of January he took. the leavings of the fag end of the sea- son. Working harder, he caught less; bit- ter cold, meaner snows to combat, desperate storms to weather—he grew weary with his sustained endurance; he saw his quarry growing gaunt as food grew scarce. When he met the old moose Hang-Nose he saw in the shaggy coat a certain lean- ness, and in the lowering eyes a certain heaviness of experience. The huge antlers had disappeared, having fallen from the bull’s brow, leaving odd scars. Without them old Hang-Nose was even a more im- posing brute, with his enormous head, his short neck, his high shoulders, and his slop- Ree sah Late in February sleet and the wilderness in crush and Mm four days French Louey was neld in camp, because the snow W not € support him on his raquettes. The free. covered the snow with a crust which, when it broke, showed edges as sharp and points — as cutting as soft glass. | On his snowshoes he could skip about, skating whither he would. He found his traps catching the wandering meat-eaters. He snared lynx. He looked eagerly, hop- ing for bears to come out from their dens. He listened at night for the wandering wolves whose hunting cry was worst in the time of crusted snow. He carried his rifle, plenty of ammunition, and wasted no hours of light of the lengthening days. Dread of the bitter cold, of the fanged wilderness affected even the taunting and buoyant spirits of the old trapper. He was glad to come back to Blue Jay harbor now. The background of the grim old lake, with its floating fields of ice, its splash of blue gray waters, and its impassi- ble barrier, was less menacing than the co- vert of the green timber where the dead cold oppressed even the habituated toughness of French Louey himself. He was unafraid. He merely wondered at the voices he heard; he merely shrank when he saw a moving shape out of the cor- ner of his eye; he merely shuddered when in the sparkling, starlit night he heard the voice of an owl, and the far-yelping cry of the hunting packs. Old Hang-Nose and the cow had retreat- ed from some miles inland to the heavy balsam fir and spruce knoll flats just within the lake’s walls of red stone. When French Louey came down to his log cabin, in from the snow-covered hulk of his little sailboat — as it lay drawn out on the beach, he found “a that the two moose were yarded at his very “ Dat ol? scoundrel!” he gasped. — comicbooks.com ww -~