owshoes. They gave him a great advantage over the beast, for
otherwise he would not have been able to get anywhere near it.

As it was, even with sinking to its shoulders at every plunge, the big
brute was slowly distancing the boy. Fred determined on a long shot, for
he was a fair marksman. Taking as good aim as he could in the excitement
of the moment, he fired.

The moose plunged on.

"You've missed!" cried Jerry.

Fred fired once more. But there was no need. By great good luck his one
bullet had reached a vital spot, and a moment later the big moose sank
down in the snow.

CHAPTER XII

LOST IN THE SNOW

With shouts of joy at the prospect of plenty of fresh meat, the Indians
leaped from the sleds, donned showshoes, and were soon at the side of
the dead moose. Mr. Baxter, Jerry and the colored man followed.

"Yo' suah am a good shot, Massa Fred," complimented Johnson. "I once
shot a wild turkey, an' goodness, I was so puffed up I hardly knowed
mahself."

"I guess it was more due to good luck than anything else that I hit
him," said Fred modestly.

"Well, it's just in time for dinner," remarked Mr. Baxter. "It will be a
welcome relief from the canned stuff."

"I'se gwine t' look out fo' suthin' t' shoot after dis," announced
Johnson. Absent-mindedly he had taken off his heavy mittens to feel of
the antlers of the moose, and without thinking what he was doing, he
took hold of his rifle barrel in his bare hand. The next instant he
uttered a howl of anguish.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Baxter quickly.

"Mah hand! It's froze fast t' mah gun! Ah cain't git it off!"

This was true. So intense was the cold that the moment the colored man
placed his warm and somewhat moist hand on the steel the flesh had
frozen fast. This is a common occurrence in the far north, and
travelers, knowing it, are careful never to grasp anything of metal in
their bare hands. But the colored man, though he had been warned against
this, had forgotten it.

"Quick! Put some snow on and then wrap his hand up in a blanket!" called
Mr. Baxter. "He'll lose a finger or two if we don't."

It was the work of but an instant for Fred to scoop up some snow in his
big mitten, place it over the negro's hand and part of the rifle barrel
and then throw a fur robe over his whole arm, thus shutting out the
terrible cold for a moment. The treatment was effective, the snow melted
the ice between Johnson's hand and the metal, and in a few