An old moose would never do that."

"But both animals look to be about the same size," replied Rod, still
doubtful.

"It's a two-year-old calf; almost as big as its mother. In fact, it's
not really a calf, because it is too old; but so long as young moose
stick to their mothers we call them calves up here. I've known them to
remain together for three years."

"They're coming this way!" whispered the white youth.

The moose had turned, heading for the base of the mountain upon which
they stood. Wabi drew his companion behind a big rock, from which both
could look down without being seen.

"Be quiet!" he warned. "They're coming to feed on the sprouting poplar
along the mountain side. Just been over to the creek to get a drink.
We may have some fun!"

He wet a finger in his mouth and held it above his head, the forest
pathfinder's infallible method of telling how the wind blows. No
matter how slight the movement of the air may be, one side of the
finger dries first, in an instant, and is warm, while the side that
remains damp is cold, and in the lee, that side toward which the wind
is blowing.

"The wind is wrong, dead wrong," said Wabi. "It's blowing straight
toward them. Unless we are so high that our scent goes above them they
won't come much nearer."