"I should like to get a moose," Reynolds declared. "I haven't shot one
since I came north."

"Don't do it, young man, unless ye kin git nuthin' else," Samson
advised. "A moose is a purty big animal, an' we could tote only a
little piece of its carcass. The rest we'd have to leave to spile.
I've allus made a practice of shootin' something that I kin clean up in
a few meals. Some critters, who call 'emselves men, shoot everything
in sight, an' leave it to spile. That is wasteful slaughter, an' not
true sport."

Reynolds was glad to roll himself up in his blanket that night, for he
was tired after his day's tramp, with a heavy pack on his back. Samson
did likewise, and soon silence reigned in the deep forest, broken only
by the ripple of the brook a short distance away. It was a calm night,
mild, and with not a breath of wind astir.

Some time during the night Reynolds awoke with a start. He sat up and
looked around. It was light enough for him to see that his companion
was gone, and he believed that it was his footsteps that had aroused
him. After waiting for some time and nothing happened, he once again
stretched himself out upon the ground. But he could not sleep. What
was the meaning of Samson's departure? he wondered. Had it anything to
do with the Indian they had seen that day across the ravine? The more
he thought of it, the more mystified he became. How long he thus lay
there with every sense alert, he did not know, though it seemed a long
time before the prospector at last returned. Reynolds pretended that
he was asleep, but his suspicions were now firmly confirmed when the
old man bent over him for a few seconds as if to make sure that he was
not awake.