contest was even and the moose won.

Apart from the hazard, there is a barbarism about this straightaway
chase, which repels the trapper. It usually succeeds by bogging the
moose in crusted snow, or a waterhole--and then, Indian fashion, a
slaughter; and no trapper kills for the sake of killing, for the simple
practical reason that his own life depends on the preservation of game.

A slight snowfall and the wind in his face are ideal conditions for a
still hunt. One conceals him. The other carries the man-smell from the
game.

Which way does the newly-discovered footprint run? More flakes are in
one hole than the other. He follows the trail till he has an idea of the
direction the moose is taking; for the moose runs straightaway, not
circling and doubling back on cold tracks like the deer, but marching
direct to the objective point, where it turns, circles slightly--a loop
at the end of a line--and lies down a little off the trail. When the
pursuer, following the cold scent, runs past, the moose gets wind and is
off in the opposite direction like a vanishing streak.

Having ascertained the lie of the land, the trapper leaves the line of
direct trail and follows in a circling detour. Here, he finds the print
fresher, not an hour old. The moose had stopped to browse and the
markings are moist on a twig. The trapper leaves the trail, advancing
always by a detour to leeward. He is sure, now, that it is a spinster.
If it had been any other, the moose would not have been alone. The rest
would be tracking into the leader's steps; and by the fresh trail he
knows for a certainty there is only one. But his very nearness increases
the risk. The wind may shift. The snowfall is thinning. This time, when
he comes back to the trail, it is fresher still. The hunter now gets his
rifle ready. He dare not put his foot down without testing the snow,
lest a twig snap. He parts a way through the brush with his hand and
replaces every branch. And when next he comes back to the line of the
moose's travel, there is no trail. This is what he expected. He takes
off his coat; his leggings, if they are loose enough to rub with a
leathery swish; his musk-rat fur cap, if it has any conspicuous colour;
his boots, if they are noisy and given to crunching. If only he aim
true, he will have moccasins soon enough. Leaving all impedimenta, he
follows back on his own steps to the place where he last saw the trail.
Perhaps the saucy jay cries with a shril