at was rushing toward him. He was the monarch of the wilderness. There
was nothing in the world that he feared, except those strange-smelling
little beasts on two legs who crept around through the woods and shot
fire out of sticks. This was surely not one of those treacherous
animals, but some strange new creature that dared to shriek at him and
try to drive him out of its way. He would not move. He would try his
strength against this big yellow-eyed beast.

"Losh!" cried McLeod; "he's gaun' to fecht us!" and he dropped the cord,
grabbed the levers, and threw the steam off and the brakes on hard. The
heavy train slid groaning and jarring along the track. The moose never
stirred. The fire smoldered in his small narrow eyes. His black crest
was bristling. As the engine bore down upon him, not a rod away, he
reared high in the air, his antlers flashing in the blaze, and struck
full at the headlight with his immense fore feet. There was a shattering
of glass, a crash, a heavy shock, and the train slid on through the
darkness, lit only by the moon.

Thirty or forty yards beyond, the momentum was exhausted and the engine
came to a stop. Hemenway and McLeod clambered down and ran back, with
the other trainmen and a few of the passengers. The moose was lying in
the ditch beside the track, stone dead and frightfully shattered. But
the great head and the vast spreading antlers were intact.

"Seelverhorrns, sure enough!" said McLeod, bending over him. "He was
crossin' frae the Nepisiguit to the Jacquet; but he didna get across.
Weel, Dud, are ye glad? Ye hae kilt yer first moose!"

"Yes," said Hemenway, "it's my first moose. But it's your first moose,
too. And I think it's our last. Ye gods, what a fighter!"

FOOTNOTE:

[1] From _Days Off_. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Used
by permission of the publishers.

[Illustration]

II.--The Wild-Horse Hunter[2]

_By Zane Grey_

I

THREE wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream in
the Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil's
Ford.

These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses.
They were young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in the
saddle, bronzed like Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them
appeared to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When the
meager meal was prepared they sat, cross-legged, before a ragged
tarpaulin, eating and drinking i