The bull’s angry call echoes across the bog like a freight train’s air
horn, making the three idiots behind me titter and giggle like some
school girlies at their first dance. “I wonder how big he is? And how
many points his rack will score?” Jerry wonders as he puts his clip
in his rifle.
What does he thinks I is, a psychic? I calls moose, I don’t predict
’em. I don’t even bother to answer that question, I just steps ahead
a little and calls back at the moose, who probably has a lot more
common sense than the three of these saps puts together.
The bull answers again, a little closer this time. He’s riled up
alright, I can tells by the racket he’s making; snortin’, splashin’ in
the water like he don’t give a damn who hears him coming. I scans
across the bog, trying to see through the steam that rising up from it.
He’s out there, I just can’t sees him.
Next thing I know they’re talking behind me ’bout gettin their picture
in the paper with the moose. Talk about confidence, he ain’t even
dead yet. I warns ’em to keep quiet, and tells Jerry to get ready, the
bull ain’t too far away. He slides a shell into the chamber, then
starts shakin’ like a leaf. Fat boy ain’t so brave now when the
pressure is on.
Suddenly, the splashing stops. The moose is not too far, but he
doesn’t come any closer. Maybe he heard the dummies talking afore, or he can smell the hamburgers on their breath. We waits. He doesn’t leave, but doesn’t move either. “What’s the matter?” Jerry asks with his teeth a chatterin’. “Why won’t he come to us?”
“He might a got spooked.” I answers. “But I can make him come. You ready?”
Some luck. I’m trying to make this bull think there’s another bull
ready to fight. I doubts he’ll believe his competition is hanging out
and smoking. I scoops up some bog water with my bull horn and let’s it run out the mouthpiece. It sounds just like a big old moose taking a leak.
Nothing, he’s frozen. I hits him on the shoulder. “Shoot!” The bull
is about 75 yards away and closing in fast. “Bang!” The gun roars but
the moose keeps a chargin’. He missed. “Again!” I yells. “Blam!”
He fires a second time and hits the same thing as before. Nothing.
By now the moose is bearing down on us like Aunt Jemimah on a pancake.
I’ve seen enough. I climbs up the nearest tree. His brave friends is
already long gone, back towards the camp. I gets on a branch and looks down, just as the bull charges into the trees, lowers his horns and runs over Jerry.
Tomorrow, the gripping conclusion… God, that even sounds crazy!