They chanced upon a moose-yard, and while the Indians were beating the
woods, Malbrouck and Gregory watched.

Soon a cow and a young moose came swinging down to the embankment.
Malbrouck whispered: "Now if you must have your live moose, here's a
lasso. I'll bring down the cow. The young one's horns are not large.
Remember, no pulling. I'll do that. Keep your broken chest and bad arm
safe. Now!"

Down came the cow with a plunge into the yard-dead. The lasso, too, was
over the horns of the calf, and in an instant Malbrouck was swinging away
with it over the snow. It was making for the trees--exactly what
Malbrouck desired. He deftly threw the rope round a sapling, but not too
taut, lest the moose's horns should be injured. The plucky animal now
turned on him. He sprang behind a tree, and at that instant he heard the
thud of hoofs behind him. He turned to see a huge bull-moose bounding
towards him. He was between two fires, and quite unarmed. Those hoofs
had murder in them. But at the instant a rifle shot rang out, and he
only caught the forward rush of the antlers as the beast fell.

The young moose now had ceased its struggles, and came forward to the
dead bull with that hollow sound of mourning peculiar to its kind.
Though it afterwards struggled once or twice to be free, it became docile
and was easily taught, when its anger and fear were over.

And Gregory Thorne had his live moose. He had also, by that splendid
shot, achieved with one arm, saved Malbrouck from peril, perhaps from
death.

They drew up before the house at Marigold Lake on the afternoon of the