runnin' agin me. But he saw 'twan't no use, and took his old stand
agin. I dropped down the grapnel, and after a great many failures, I
hooked into the string of the powder horn, and hoisted away. I hauled
it up mighty quick, for the old bull seemed to be suspicions that
something was goin' on that might have something to do with his futer
happiness, and when he got sight of it, the pass he made was a thing
to stand out of the way of. But he was too late; the powder-horn was
safe, and I notified him, as Squire Smith did the cats, to leave them
parts in just one minute by the clock. He did'nt pay any attention to
the warnin'. I loaded my rifle carefully, and while I was puttin' on
the cap, asked the gentleman if he calculated to move on, and let
peaceable people alone. He didn't condescend to answer a word, looking
for all the world like a tiger in savageness. 'Very well,' said I, as
I sighted him between the eyes, 'on your head be it,' and pulled. The
ball went crashin' through his skull into his brain, and he went down.
Crop knew what that meant. He didn't wait to run down the log, but
leaped to the ground, and had his teeth in the animal's throat before
the echoes of my rifle were done dancin' around among the mountains. I
loaded my gun before I came down, thinkin' maybe there might be
another bad tempered moose about, but there wasn't. Crop and I learned
what we ought to've know before, and that was that it's a safe thing
for a hunter to have an extra horn of powder in his pocket, and a
loaded rifle in his hand when a mad bull moose is on his trail, and
that a slantin' tree is a good thing to get onto at sich a time."

CHAPTER XXX.

GOOD-BYE--FLOATING DOWN THE RACKETT--A BLACK FOX--A TRICK UPON THE
MARTIN TRAPPERS AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

We rose with the dawn the next morning, and before the sun was above
the hills we were on our way down the lake, to separate as we struck
the Rackett; the Doctor and Smith to return by the way of Keeseville
and the Champlain, and Spalding and myself to drift down that pleasant
stream to Pottsdam, and thence to the majestic St. Lawrence, to spend
a fortnight among the "Thousand Islands" of that noble river. Near the
outlet of the lake is a bold rocky bluff, rising right up out of the
deep water twenty feet, against which the waves dash, and around which
a romantic bay steals away to hide itself in the old woods. This
beautiful bay is always calm, for even the narrow strait wh